The Pureblood of Asgård
by Oshii
Summary: FINALLY UPDATED AFTER 2 YEARS! Ch5: Bathtub seductions turn violent, the boys smoke pot and consult with estranged fashion designer Eric von Weichlinghammer as their new "band fitness manager", Ofdensen has bitchin' fashion sense, and Toki comforts Skwis.
1. A Dark Soul

Chapter One: A Dark Soul

Jean-Pierre was the only six-star chef in the world, and despite being mutilated almost beyond recognition and then crudely sewn back together by the very band he lived to serve, he was a damn good cook. So when Dethklok gathered around their massive and garish dining table that evening after the call to feast had been sounded and yet each sat there in their own lethargic stupors, not making any noticeable move to touch any of the delicacies laid out before them, the reason was unbeknownst to all.

"Dood, is it jest me, 'r does tanight's dinner not look…y'know…eh, good?" Pickles raised a pierced eyebrow, giving the portly, perfectly basted chicken—set atop an antique silver platter adorned with decorative garnish leaves—in front of him a speculative look before taking a deep pull from his tequila bottle.

"Yeah…it's like…I mean, yeah, Jean-Pierre did a crappy job, I think…did he? I mean, did he not, y'know, cook our food right? 'Cause it doesn't really look that good to me either, Pickles, is what I guess I'm trying to say." Nathan rumbled, picking up the medium-rare steak on his plate and watching the juices drip onto the porcelain before sniffing it experimentally. "I'm just having…I'm havin a really hard time expressing myself."

Murderface planted his hilariously expensive hunting knife into the slippery slab of veal on his own plate, bringing the dismembered chunk of meat up to his mouth and biting it off the tip of the knife. "I zthink it tashes awright," He mumbled approvingly, small flecks of meat and spit flying out from his inhumanly colossal gap as he spoke.

Toki sighed, stroking his Fu Manchu reverently for a moment before grinning and springing to his feet, the sudden momentum knocking his chair backward onto the floor. "Hey, does any a' you guys mind if I mace dis STUPIDS turkey?" He asked, gesturing to the pewter spiked pelvic thrust mace belt buckled around his groin.

"Uh, go ahead." Nathan muttered, resting his chin in one beefy hand and staring moodily down at his cooling steak that would've normally already been devoured had it not been for the odd lack of appetite that night.

"RRRRAHH!" Toki bellowed, thrusting forward with all his might. A thick, yellow stream of mace spurted out and shot the turkey dead-on. The flesh of the dead bird began to rapidly dissolve, bubbling and oozing away in sickening globs, leaving little greyish bones exposed.

Skwisgaar made a face at the Norwegian's antics. "Augh, TOKI, I was goings to eats dat turkey maybes, but now yous to be ruinings it fors me." He complained, fingers never stopping their reflexive dancing across the neck of his ebony X-plorer the whole while.

"'Ey, Skwiss, ken ya please jest…quiet down for a second?" Pickles groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. "I was _jest _startin ta get my appetite back and yer bitchin' just—"

"Shut up, Pickles." Nathan' s head snapped up, and he glared at the Irish-American drummer for a moment before letting his gaze drift to the Swedish guitarist, who was silently pouting down the table. "You too, Skwisgaar." (around the same time Pickles muttered something like 'bite me')

"Whos are _yous_ to be tellings me to shuts up?" Skwisgaar demanded, arching a blond eyebrow and returning the vocalist's emerald glare with a challenging cerulean stare of his own. "I bes de fastest guitarists in de worlds, and _yous_ are sittings dere tellings _me_ to-"

"Aw, _BOF_ a'ya zshut the hell up!" Murderface roared, stabbing his knife into the table with a resounding _THWUNK_ and rising to his feet. "Eh, pish on thish, let'sch go _out_ to eat."

"Oh, yeah." Nathan uttered excitedly, leaping to his feet with a sudden gracefulness that completely belied his behemoth stature. "I'm kinda feelin' like pizza."

"Oh, dood, pizza, yeah." Pickles agreed wholeheartedly, finishing off the last of his tequila and nonchalantly tossing the bottle across the room, where it landed with the sound of glass shattering against the stone wall. "Let's stop at th'bar 'fore we get back, though."

"Oh, yeah!" The five of them chorused.

**- x - x - x -**

Nathan parked the Murdercycle so that it awkwardly but blatantly took up five and a half consecutive parking spaces at the local Pizza Hut. Honestly, Stevie Wonder could've parked the damn thing better than the hulking frontman, but let's not start throwing insults yet.

Toki gasped in awe as they entered the restaurant (well, _entered_ would be the politically correct term; the apt term would be more like _smashed_ _through into_ or _hulked into_, but I digress, let's move on).

"Ohhh, what's DIS place called?" His ever-curious ice blue eyes, still holding all the naïveté of a child, never lingered on one specific item for more than a second before jumping to something else flashy in the pizzeria. Though, Toki wasn't the only one in the establishment who was bugging out like this.

"HOLY SHIT, IT'S _DETHKLOK_!" Some douchebag wearing a Dethklok band tee about six sizes too big for his scrawny pre-pubescent ass jabbed a finger at the entrance, pizza and marinara sauce spewing out of his mouth during his exclamation.

"LYKE OMG NATHAN EXPLODE MEEEE~!" A skinny blonde with purple streaks in her hair and a labret ring shrieked from a few tables down, wringing her hands under her chin and grinning ecstatically. Stupid bitch.

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Pffft. Wes been here almost a fulls _minute_ ands I ain't gots no pretty ladys screamings _my_ names yet? Dat's _bulls_."

Nathan furrowed his brow at the building pandemonium. "Uh, guys, maybe we should just like…get a pizza and get outta here? I mean…like, to-go?"

"Yeah, dat sounds good," Pickles' green eyes flickered rapidly across the restaurant, at the customers who were abandoning their food in favor of their metal heroes still standing in the entrance.

"HEY," Nathan shoved past the guy already standing in line waiting for his to-go order. The man looked about ready to protest but, seeming to finally take in the sheer _vastness_ of Nathan, wisely decided to keep his trap shut. Nathan, ever the observant fellow, didn't notice this at all.

"We want, uh…we want…" He glanced over his large shoulder at the rest of the band, who were busy trying to fight off the advancing fans. "Hey, whaddyou guys want?"

"Dood, jest get us each a friggin pepperoniiow_ah GAD GET TH'HELL _OFFA _ME!_" Pickles flailed, his fist connecting with the side of some overzealous teenager's face. A pair of scissors flew across the room and collided against the wooden partition. The dimwitted bastard had been trying to, apparently, cut off one of Pickles's dreads. Had he succeeded, it would likely have been the last mistake he'd ever make.

"Hellos, ladies," Skwisgaar was the only one who seemed to be comfortable with all the sudden attention. He'd sat down on the worn pleather-upholstered waiting bench near the entrance, stretching his long legs out and allowing a handful of similarly-dressed women—some of which didn't look a day over eighteen—throw themselves upon him. "I'd loves to takes yous _all_ backs to Mordshaus, but uns-fortunatelys dere's only rooms for one of yous in de murder's cycle with me." Figures—the guitarist would love to have beautiful women fight over him. All the more attention he felt he deserved.

"Psszht, fuckin manwhore," Murderface folded his arms and glared with an unconcealed jealousy as one of the women ran her hand up the Swede's denim-sheathed thigh to probe near his crotch. Shame this was a family-oriented restaurant.

Skwisgaar had ended up choosing a _very_ full-bodied brunette beauty to claim the coveted spot next to him in his little Murdercycle side cab. How he managed to fit the FBL _and_ his obscenely tall self in the cab was a mystery in and of itself. But who cares, they both fit in there and the Murdercycle was currently doing eighty-five peeling out of the parking lot, five pepperoni pizzas safely held in place on Pickles's lap. He was the only one who could be trusted not to eat them before they reached Mordhaus.

And reach Mordhaus they did, pizzas unscathed and Skwisgaar's FBL half-sodomized.

"Ah, you guys cans just holds onto my pizza, I's gots _business_ to attends to," He grinned wickedly and ushered the brunette to the spiraling staircase of stone steps and wrought iron handrails, fondling her and mumbling sweet nothings in her ear the whole way. A chorus of feminine giggles and saucy Swedish purrs echoed down the stairwell, much to the rest of the band's annoyance and envy. Well, at least until the lid of the first pizza box was lifted. Then all hell broke loose as the remaining four members of Dethklok practically leapfrog-ed over each other to get to the food.

**- x - x - x -**

It was 3:22 in the morning. Skwisgaar should be sleeping but he wasn't. His FBL was, though, and that was partly the reason he was up in the first place—she'd stopped moving halfway through their seventh fuck round. At first Skwisgaar had thought she'd collapsed and died of a heart attack, but after hearing her unearthly snore rattle throughout the starkly white confines of his bedroom, quickly figured out that this wasn't the case. So here he was, tired, miffed, and half-hard. He'd never had a groupie fall asleep on him before. Ever. It was as appallingly rude as it was utterly humiliating, even for Skwisgaar's standards.

The other reason Skwisgaar was awake was because he needed to piss, and badly. At first he'd just rolled over and tried to ignore the throbbing ache of his full bladder, but then he'd realized that if he did urinate maybe his half-assed erection would give way and he'd be able to relax and fall asleep. So, with a yawn and a sigh, Skwisgaar rose from his typhoid den of a bed and trudged into his own small bathroom adjoining his bedroom.

Eyes barely open, the Swede neglected to turn on the light as he crossed the threshold and oriented himself in front of what he hoped was the toilet before pissing. If it was the toilet, he needn't worry—the seat was always up. He was the only one who used this bathroom. His groupies never seemed to possess any other bodily functions besides climaxing and occasionally vomiting from too much to drink. In a sick, strange way, Skwisgaar found the latter to be positively endearing—unless it was in his mouth. _That_ was the one thing he didn't like about getting his ladies smashed, so he usually uttered a small prayer to Odin in Swedish while pouring vodka down the throat(s) of whomever he'd chosen to take to bed with him, hoping that they'd have enough wits about them to turn their heads before throwing up all over him. If they did, oh well. Their pussies didn't puke, did they? Nope. Carry on with the thrusting.

Skwisgaar rolled his shoulders back and felt something pop, then let out a sigh of relief. He felt better now that he'd finally pissed. Maybe now he'd be able to get some fucking sleep.

The promiscuous Swede crawled back into bed a bit later, wrapping his discarded end of the rabbit-fur blanket around his naked body and curling up, closing his eyes and willing himself to drift into a faraway state of blissful indifference. Not as difficult as he'd thought it would be, seeing as his usual method of falling asleep was to fuck himself into exhaustion and collapse into unconsciousness from a combination of extreme exertion and an appalling state of inebriation, often waking the next morning with little to no recollection of the previous night save for the snoring body of whomever he'd went to bed with.

But just as Skwisgaar was about to completely release his grip on reality, he sensed an unfamiliar presence in his room. Apparently, this basic instinct was enough to jerk him from slumber into consciousness with a sudden ferocity. He rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows, only to see the ethereally glowing form of the most exquisite woman he'd ever laid eyes on take shape a few feet above his bed, hovering like some kind of beautiful apparition.

But before Skwisgaar could open his mouth to scream, to demand what the hell was going on, to do _anything_, the woman spoke first.

"_Skwisgaar, do not fear me," _She spoke in Swedish, her voice unlike anything Skwisgaar had ever heard come from the mouth of any other female. (Not surprising, considering that most of his sluts were old whores with chronic smoker's coughs and liquor roughened tongues—not exactly lovely in anybody's definition of the word).

"_Wh—who _are_ you?"_ Skwisgaar replied, blinking in an attempt to discern dream from reality, half-expecting this otherworldly woman to dissolve and vanish at any second. Part of him wished she would—he was tired as fuck-all, and didn't know if he had the capacity to withstand this type of shit right now.

"_I hail from the halls of Asgård, in the realm of __Vanir__. I am Freyja, goddess of fertility, magic, and prophecy, among others."_

"_Why are you here?"_ Skwisgaar stared up at the goddess—there was no way she was anything other than such—and waited for an answer. While he did, his eyes trailed over the long tendrils of copper-colored hair, gently flowing with all the ease of being underwater; on the ivory-skinned, sweetly curvaceous body half-hidden beneath gossamer and silk. Suddenly there was nothing in the world Skwisgaar wouldn't trade for a night in bed with her—his eyes flickered automatically to his dearest possession, his Gibson X-plorer propped up against the large Krank amp in the corner of the room.

Freyja tsk-tsked and shook her head sadly, as if she could tap into Skwisgaar's unsurprisingly dirty thoughts. Which she probably could. _"I am here to bestow a gift upon you, Skwisgaar—something to help you cross over from this dark world of eternal lust and sin. I can help you see the light, Skwisgaar."_

Skwisgaar furrowed his brow. Dark world of eternal lust and sin? See the light? What the hell was this beautiful goddess talking about? _"I don't understand,"_ He admitted.

"_You have lain with these nameless women on too many an occasion, stealing the innocence of young virgins, further soiling the already tarnished souls of the lost ones, without any regard for the balance of right and wrong, only seeing that your own carnal desires and sins of the flesh were satiated. Now, Skwisgaar Skwigelf, I am here to save your soul from joining those that have already slipped through our fingers. I am offering you salvation."_

"_Salvation?" _Skwisgaar echoed, arching a blond eyebrow and staring up at Freyja speculatively.

"_If you bear a child of your own blood, pure as the driven snow and untouched by the filthy blood of your bedmates, you will be able to redeem yourself and gain entrance to Valhalla as a noble warrior."_

Skwisgaar was so utterly fucking confused right now it wasn't the slightest bit funny. Well, maybe a little. But still._ "So you're saying, if I bear a child of my own blood I won't be damned? What do you mean of my own blood? Untouched by the filthy blood?"_ He queried.

Freyja nodded solemnly. _"You must bear a child, Skwisgaar—you alone."_

What. The fuck.

"_Me?"_ Skwisgaar's eyes widened, and his fingers reflexively clutched the blanket tighter—a reaction to stress; had he his X-plorer in his hands, the void of awkward silence in the room would be filled with the quiet metallic plinking of his fingers dancing out various scales, bridges, choruses, solos, etc., anything to keep his hands and mind busy.

"_You and you alone."_ Freyja reiterated. _"I'm afraid it is the only way."_

Skwisgaar, still half-convinced that this must be a dream and therefore should harbor no long-term repercussions, decided to agree to whatever the hell the goddess was saying, if not for the enjoyment of remembering this dream later and laughing to himself.

"_I'll do it."_

Freyja smiled for the first time since their conversation began, and lowered down so that she hovered just above Skwisgaar. _"A wise choice, my son."_

Skwisgaar did not speak. He lay flat on the bed, watching, mesmerized at the way Freyja's pale and perfect hand trailed down his bare torso. Had she been a human woman, Skwisgaar would've immediately become aroused and promptly claimed her for his own, flinging her down onto the bed and pushing himself inside her with an unparalleled ferocity.

However, the Swede's depraved thoughts were interrupted when Freyja's hand stopped its trailing path to rest on his abdomen. Skwisgaar was deeply disappointed—goddess or not, he'd been hoping for a handjob, despite his previous wishes of getting rid of his leftover hard-on so he could fall asleep.

Again, as if she could read his mind, Freyja scowled and frowned up at him, but decided not to comment on it. After all, this was the whole reason she was here, after all—to stop this ridiculous behavior of Skwisgaar's. _"Lie still—this will take but a moment."_

Skwisgaar reached his arms back and clasped his hands behind his head, staring up at the stone ceiling, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. Dream or no dream, this was fucked up in the extreme.

Suddenly, Skwisgaar felt a vibrant sensation of warmth surging through his core, radically intensifying and reaching out to seep into every little nook and cranny, no crevasse of his being untouched by this strange new warmth. He lifted his head up, trying to peer up and see what exactly Freyja was doing to him.

Freyja had a serene expression on her face as she lifted her hand from Skwisgaar's abdomen. _"You are with child, Skwisgaar."_

And then she dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind nothing save for the abrupt temperature drop in the room.

Skwisgaar's FBL snored loudly and rolled over, but did not wake from her obnoxious slumber.

Skwisgaar, too, felt himself to be oddly exhausted, strange considering what he'd just been though. It was probably just a dream, but still…Christ, Freyja was beautiful. And…was that warmth still there? He closed his eyes, callused and talented fingers tentatively grazing his stomach. Yes, yes it was.

Deciding that he'd rather dwell on this later on, after several more hours of sleep, some food, and perhaps a little alcohol, Skwisgaar relaxed and allowed sleep to take him once more, lying on his back with his fingers still pressed to his abdomen.

**- x - x - x -**

Skwisgaar felt completely the same in the morning, so he automatically dismissed his encounter with the divine goddess of the Vanir as an Absolut-and-exhaustion-induced hallucination.

After the brunette FBL had been escorted out of the 'haus, Skwisgaar joined the rest of the band in the game room, neglecting to send for breakfast, seeing as he wasn't hungry in the least.

"'Ey, look who jest got down from _climbin th'mountain_," Pickles leered, raising his beer bottle in salutation before taking a swig from it.

Skwisgaar, painfully naïve to English metaphors, disregarded the drummer's crude greeting and instead sat down on the couch beside Murderface, who was nonchalantly reading the newspaper and grumbling under his breath. Nathan was lounging in one of the armchairs, gaze fixated on the massive plasma screen suspended by hooks from the ceiling and flipping through channels with lazy kicks to the stomp box remote. Pickles sat in the other armchair, well on his way to the decent state of intoxication he deemed necessary to make it through the day. Toki was gyrating on the DDR machine across the room, the occasional 'oh wowie, new high's score!' or 'dammit! Stupids game is too hards!' emitting from his mouth. Everyone had a niche in this game room; suddenly Skwisgaar felt awkward, uncomfortable, out-of-place. So he decided to make himself feel better the only other way he knew how—insulting those who were enjoying themselves more than he was.

"Hey, dildo," He called to Toki, who was ignoring him. "Yous looks like yous got de epi…epsilep…el…like you has de seizure, hm?"

Toki, panting and covered in sweat, hopped off of the dance machine and flicked his insanely long and awesome brunette hair over his shoulder before glancing over at Skwisgaar. "Did yous say some'tings, Skwisgaar?"

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Never minds," He muttered, turning to face the TV. "Hey, Pickle, does you haves any more of de beers?"

"Eh…think I drank 'em all," Pickles smiled lopsidedly, upending the current bottle he held before dropping it on the floor to join the appallingly large pile of other bottles.

"Pffft." Skwisgaar folded his arms and pouted in silence after that.

The day went by slowly, uneventfully, with Dethklok lazing away in the game room for the vast majority of the time. Around seven that evening, Ofdensen stormed in, stack of papers in hand and heated expression on his otherwise glass-smooth badass executive face.

"Boys, why the hell aren't you in the studio?" He demanded. "You haven't been working on the new album at all since the release of the Dethalbum, and your fans are dropping left and right from suicides brought on by your inactivity." He threw the papers—suicide notes, legal documents, court files, etc.—down on the spiked coffee table, folding his arms and scanning the face of each band member for any signs of remorse. Or life, for that matter.

"Huh huh," Nathan chuckled at the episode of _Cheaters_ he was watching on G4. He'd become quite taken by shows about failing relationships ever since he'd broken up with Rebecca Cuntrod—I mean, Nightrod. Aside from that, no one else seemed to take any notice to what Ofdensen had just said.

Ofdensen sighed exasperatedly. "Look, these fans are your primary source of income—if they die, you lose everything," He dumbed his explanation down as best as he could, hoping for a more exuberant reaction from the band.

"WHAT?" Pickles flailed, vodka spilling onto his tank top. "Ya mean we lose all'r _money_?"

"ZAT'S TERRIBLE!" Murderface screamed, piss-yellow eyes widening in horror at the thought of not being able to frivolously purchase medieval antiques and add to his vastly extensive knife collection whenever he pleased.

"_WHHHYYYYYYY?"_ Skwisgaar wailed dramatically, throwing an arm across his forehead in emphasis.

Ofdensen's face was expressionless. "If you do not want this to happen, I suggest you get in the studio and…you know, start working on that album. Come on, let's go. Let's go. Studio. Now. _Let's_ Go."

Nathan grimaced and uttered a long, guttural sigh. "Dear god, you're a dick." However, he did heave himself out of the chair in which he'd been fused to all day, cracking several joints as he did so. "Come on, guys. We've gotta…y'know…we've gotta start workin on that album or we'll lose money."

With disgruntled but resigned noises of dismay, the four other members of Dethklok trudged behind Nathan as they left the game room and made their way toward the studio.

Ofdensen smirked, gathering up the pile of fake suicide notes from the coffee table. "I knew forging these would be a good idea."

**- x - x - x -**

A little over a month into their recording session, and Dethklok had made minimal, if any, progress on the new album. Nathan had a bad case of writer's block, and when he could manage to think of something of a song idea, it was usually only a sentence or two, so for now they were just devising possible rhythms, hoping it would trigger some form of lyrical epiphany.

"Hey Pickles, d'ya think you could up the tempo on the double bass in that last bridge?" Nathan suggested one afternoon in the studio, pressing the button that enabled the talk-back mic to be activated.

"Dood, are you fuckin outta yer _mind_? Fer Chrissakes, I'm gonna have a heart attack if I go any faster!" Pickles yelled, flailing his drumsticks about, dreads flying, obviously panicking the thought of attempting to increase his already inhuman drumming speed. Double bass was not to be fucked with. It took a staggering amount of stamina to keep this technique up throughout a show, one of the main reasons Pickles was always so skinny.

Nathan sighed, burying his face in his arms. "Fuuuuucckk…"

"Shtop bein such a _wussch_, Picklesh," Murderface goaded from the couch. He was bored and annoyed, and therefore in the mood to instigate.

"_I'm_ a wuss? How bout'cha git'chYER fat ass in here an'have at it!" Pickles snarled, throwing his drumsticks down and standing up. "Fuck yer fuckin mother double bitch bass, I'm takin a break. Need sum fuckin booze." And just like that, he left the studio, without any death threats from Nathan or teasing from the guitarists.

"Hey, FUCK YOU, pal!" Murderface hollered after the drummer, only to receive a middle finger in reply. He grumbled and settled back into the couch.

Toki leaned over to Skwisgaar, brow furrowed. "How comes Pickle gets to walk off likes dat? If wes did somethings like dat Nate'ns would _kills_ us!"

"I dunno, Toki." Skwisgaar replied. "Pickle does what he wants, when he wants. Nate'n knows is useless to try and stops him, I's to be guessing."

"Dat's not fair." Toki pouted, folding his arms and pursing his lips, causing his Fu Manchu to jut forward.

"Lives is not fair, Toki. You justs has to get useds to it." Skwisgaar shrugged airily, idly fingering the strings of his X-plorer.

Nathan pivoted around in his chair, eyes set on the remaining members like the target of a sniper rifle. "All right guys, Pickles'll be back soon and we work on the main rhythms then, so for now, we gotta work on the licks. You." He jabbed a black-lacquered finger at Skwisgaar. "Get in there and show me what you got. Try and figure something out to go with the drums. Harmonize, y'know."

Skwisgaar, oddly complaint-free, hoisted himself up and carried his guitar into the recording booth, adjusting the headphones over his ears and plugging his axe into the amp sitting in the corner. The buzz of harnessed electricity filled the small space, eager to be unleashed in the form of PURE FUCKING _METAL_.

"You ready, Skwigelf?" Nathan settled back into his chair, finger poised and ready over the 'record' button.

"Ja." Skwisgaar replied, his own fingers poised and ready on the neck of his Gibson.

But suddenly, like right fucking _just now_, he wasn't so sure. He felt the beginnings of unnerving nausea stir within, completely and totally unbidden, and he resisted the urge to groan. He was sure Nathan could see it on his face, because instead of pressing 'record' he paused and did a double-take on the Swede. "You sure? You're not…I mean, you're not, y'know…look like you're gonna puke or somethin."

"Ja, I's fine. Let's just do dis and gets it overs with." Skwisgaar pressed his mouth into a thin line and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hoping the adjustment would help chase away this sudden sensation of feeling his intestines reverse themselves.

"All right," Nathan grunted. "I'm gonna playback what we got of Pickles's drums so far, and you can just, y'know, listen and jump in whenever you feel like it. As long as you _do_ it." And with that, he pressed playback and record at the same time.

Skwisgaar tried to concentrate on the steady, pulsating staccato drumbeat, toes tapping inside his boots, the musician part of his brain meshing and composing, and he found himself playing along on his guitar, the riffs being not so different from the dozens of others he'd played on their last album. Apparently, they were going for the same sound on this one. That should be easy enough.

_WHAM!_ And just like that, the little trickle of nausea exploded into a full-blown surge, and Skwisgaar let the lick he was shredding abruptly die. The buzz of the amplifier filled the sudden void of silence in the studio, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, not even able to take his guitar off before doubling over and throwing up all over the floor of the recording booth.

"Augh, what the fuck, Skwisgaar?" Nathan made a face, jabbing the stop button. "You were doing pretty good until just now. Damn."

"Looksh like _shomeone'sh_ been hittin the bottle," Murderface smirked evilly, his gap blindingly THERE. "Way _t'go_, Shkwishgaar."

Skwisgaar blinked in disbelief and confusion, staring down at the vomit on the floor. His head reeled in the aftermath. He shrugged his guitar off his shoulders and propped it up against Pickles's drumset, staggering out of the recording booth. "Someone else cans goes in dere," He mumbled before slipping out of the room.

He passed Pickles in the hallway. The drummer was looking considerably more cheerful, probably had something to do with his eyes being considerably more glazed. He smirked and raised his bottle in greeting. "'Ey, Skwisgaar!" Then he squinted, and apparently got a better look at the guitarist. "Dood, ya look worser'n I do! You 'n Nate'n get'n a fight'r somethin?"

Skwisgaar shook his head, only half-hearing the drummer's words. He needed to get the taste of puke out of his mouth, and seeing Pickles's tequila had only reaffirmed this fact. He eyed it fervently.

"Pickle, I could maybes have a sips of dat?" He gestured to the tequila, a hopeful expression on his face.

Pickles looked back and forth between his booze and the Swede, then burst into guffaws. "Yeah, not fuckin likely! Go find yer own, dood." He was feeling pretty sassy by now, and ready to go confront Nate'n. Skwisgaar was getting in the way.

Normally, Skwisgaar would've just pfft'ed and called the drummer a name before stalking off to the kitchen to raid the liquor stash by himself, but these weren't normal circumstances. Completely abnormal, even. So, bearing this in mind, Skwisgaar put a hand on Pickles's shoulder as he was walking away and said: "Please?"

Even in his appalling state of intoxication, Pickles could realize that Skwisgaar was serious—he _really_ fucking needed a drink. "Ah, jeezez. Jest fuckin take it." He shoved the tequila at the Swede and sighed.

Skwisgaar snatched it up, unscrewed the cap and finished off the already half-empty bottle before handing it back to the vexed drummer. "T'ank you, Pickle. I was really needings dat—" His eyes widened, and he pivoted and hauled ass down the hallway to the nearest bathroom.

Pickles blinked unsteadily, then cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, "_DOOD!_ IF YA _CAN'T_ HOLD YER _LIQUOR_'N DON'T FUCKIN _ASK FOR IT!_ Douchebag…"

**- x - x - x -**

Skwisgaar was alone in his room that night. He hadn't the energy to entertain any groupies, but he still couldn't just go to sleep without playing a little guitar first. So there he sat on the edge of his bed, clad in nothing at all, X-plorer resting on his lap as he fingered along to the rhythm ticking out from his metronome, set to a ridiculously high-speed tempo. Around 250 beats per minute, give or take, depending on how much thinking Skwisgaar needed to get done.

He was in the middle of the solo to "Thunderhorse", the one that would normally be accompanied by Toki's galloping rhythm, when there was a knock at the door.

Brow furrowing, Skwisgaar yelled 'comes in' to whoever was standing outside his room, all the while not deviating from the riff or stopping the metronome.

Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear; Toki edged open the heavy wooden door to Skwisgaar's bedroom and stood there for a moment before offering a casual, "Hellos."

"Hellos, dildo." Skwisgaar replied, still not looking up at his visitor. "Whys you to be knockings on my door dis late, hm? Shouldn't little dildos like you bes in beds by now?"

Toki didn't seem offended by this suggestion; he knew it was simply Skwisgaar's way of showing curiosity and possibly concern for the Norwegian. "Ah, I just comes to tell you dat we's playings de Scrabbles downstairs. You shoulds joins us, Skwisgaar!" He smiled expectantly, watching the Swede for any sort of reaction.

Skwisgaar sighed, stopping the metronome and turning to face the exuberant Toki. "I don'ts really feels like it," he responded, looking down at his guitar.

Toki's face fell a bit, but he quickly recovered. "Suits yourselves, Skwisgaar." He turned and bounded down the hallway, leaving the bedroom door ajar.

Skwisgaar frowned at this; he propped his X-plorer against his bed and stood, crossing the room in two strides and slamming the door shut. He then sighed wearily and slid down with his back against the wood, as if this act had maxed out his the last of his energy reserves. "Stupids dildo-head, barging in my bed's room and leaving de doors open…stupids rude…Toki."

Everything in his room took on a strange fuzzy haze; the edges of what little furniture there was in the small room were blurred, dissolving; shadows diluted into a disconcerting grey tweed. Skwisgaar slumped over onto the cold stone floor and closed his eyes, feeling sleep overtake him with all the sweet asphyxiation of a drug-induced coma.

He dreamt of Freyja again that night. He woke from the sudden change in the air—it was warmer, heavier, but not uncomfortable as it would be under any other circumstances.

Bleary, unfocused, Skwisgaar raised his head and stared groggily at the goddess of Vanir in all her divine glory, not hovering above him as she'd been last time, but now casually perched on the end of his bed, one long slim leg thrown over the other, watching him with an expression that might've been mild amusement. "_We meet again,_" She smiled and tilted her head, as if the slight change in perception would enable her a whole new angle by which to observe him.

Skwisgaar rubbed at one sleep-filled cerulean eye, positively certain he was dreaming, and sat up so that he leaned against the heavy wooden door, knees brought up to his chest and arms wrapped around his shins. "_Ja. Why are you here?_"

Freyja arched her neck, her brilliant copper waves of hair undulating over her ivory shoulder, exposed by the loose-fitting white gossamer gown she wore. "_Aren't we the demanding one? Oh, well; I suppose I shouldn't be bothered by your hasty inquiry—I'm here to check in on the pureblood, Skwisgaar. I mean you no harm."_

Skwisgaar thumped his head against the door, eyes rolling back in his head. Not this shit again. "_I don't know what you're talking about—I don't have any pureblood around here, sorry._"

Freyja laughed at that; the sound was so achingly beautiful Skwisgaar swore he'd never be able to listen to any groupie's girlish giggle ever again. "_Don't lie to me, Skwisgaar—I always remember my chosen ones. If my calculations are correct, you're around two months along, ja?_" When Skwisgaar didn't reply, she continued. "_Ah, yes. Your lust-tainted soul is well on its way to redemption. This child will be born a saint, revered greatly by all in the great hall of Asgård._"

Skwisgaar realized he wasn't going to get anywhere insisting that this was all a big, fucked-up joke and there was no _child_, no _redemption_ for him—it was only a dream, after all. He decided to play along. "_Of course it will—it's my kid, after all_."

"_I would normally chide you for being so readily standoffish, but your pride is quite welcome in this context, Skwisgaar._" Freyja rose from the bed, gossamer folds of her gown billowing to the floor with such a gentle grace as to put fine-spun silk to shame. She glided over to Skwisgaar and knelt down next to him so that their faces were almost touching. "_If I may…_"

Skwisgaar felt his heart skip a few beats as the goddess slid her hand down his thigh; he immediately lowered his legs, looking down at his crotch expectantly, feeling somewhat disheartened when he felt her hand on the taut muscles of his stomach. "_What are you doing?_" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Freyja's face darkened, and without drawing her hand away, looked up at Skwisgaar, her gaze stern. "_You've been drinking the poison of mortals, haven't you?_"

Poison of mortals…drinking…oh. "_Ja, mostly tequila and vodka. Why? That's the good stuff, you know-_"

"_It is not good for the pureblood, Skwisgaar. You ought to avoid such discrepancies in the future._"

"_Are you telling me I'm not allowed to DRINK?_" Skwisgaar's voice rose in incredulous outrage—at this moment he didn't give a rat's ass if Freyja _was_ a goddess; there was no way in fucking HELL he was cutting himself off from booze. Besides, alcohol made him feel good, so why the hell would it be bad for this 'child' of his?

"_If you continue on your path down this road of sin and self-destruction, the pureblood will die, and the realm of _Vanir_ will forever weep the loss of their beloved child_." Freyja proclaimed. She snatched her hand away and stood in the same fluid motion, glaring silently down at Skwisgaar.

"_Pffft._" Skwisgaar folded his arms, his only other defense mechanism kicking in as he stared down at the floor and sulked like a petulant child.

Freyja's expression cooled, and she leaned over slightly, gently tilting Skwisgaar's chin up so that he might face her. "_You will grow to love this child, Skwisgaar. I can feel it in the pulses of the Norns, and they never lie._" Her accompanying smile to this declaration was almost maternal. "_Fate has something magnificent planned for you, and for your child. Once this trial has come to pass, you will be hailed as worthy to enter the halls of Valhalla as a noble warrior._"

Skwisgaar did not smile; however, he didn't pout or glare, either. "_I don't see why,_" He mumbled.

Freyja chuckled and withdrew her hand. "_In time, my dear._"

And, like in Skwisgaar's last dream, she faded away with no sound, no sudden extravagance; albeit, he could feel the warmth unfurling inside of him like a furred serpent where Freyja's hand had been. He looked down to see if anything had changed, and while he looked the same externally, he knew something radical was going on in there.

For being a dream, it sure felt real as fuck.

**- x - x - x -**

For the next couple of weeks, Skwisgaar wouldn't have been able to disobey Freyja's commands even if he wanted to. He was sober at all hours now, and yet he was throwing up enough to compensate for this thrice over, possibly more. Alcohol of any sort was certainly out of the question.

This, of course, meant one less member for Dethklok's mandatory all-night boözefests. The first time Skwisgaar declined the offer to join, the others were astounded—the _Swede_ refusing to _drink_? Laughable. Pickles tried needling him into it, Murderface attempted getting a rise out of derogatory insults, Toki even made a go at coaxing, with no avail. After Skwisgaar had walked away, they'd all just shrugged and turned back to their motley assortments of bottles, thinking nothing of it after that.

Except that it persisted. And it wasn't just the boözefests where Skwisgaar's performance was lacking—he often showed up late for rehearsals, looking visibly exhausted and wan, and other times he wouldn't even show up at all. Most of the band passed it off as lack of sleep or just being a dickbrain in general, but Toki could sense something more sinister brewing underneath the surface.

It all started when Skwisgaar missed a note during practice one day. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, fastest guitarist alive, the best of the best, an almighty god among metalheads, actually fucked up a riff.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to gape shamelessly at the Swede.

"Dood, did you jest do what I _think_ ya did?"

"Holy schit, Shkwishgaar mished a note!"

"Whoa….you feelin all right?"

Toki was the only one who said nothing. His reaction was perhaps the worst—ice blue eyes wide, stricken, staring; mouth pressed into a thin line. At that point he _knew_ it was something more than just lack of sleep. Something was seriously wrong with the Swede, and he made it his solemn duty to find out what.

Skwisgaar's fingers trembled; he looked down at his hands with incredulous disgust, as if blaming them solely for his mistake. "I ams…sorry, I don'ts…ah, I don'ts know what's has gotten into me." He mumbled, awestruck.

"Dood, Skwiss, ya look like hell. Go get sum fuckin sleep, will ya?" Pickles raised his pierced eyebrows to add emphasis to this statement.

"Pickles is right," Nathan added, turning around fully to face the lead guitarist. "You look like you're dying slowly of some…I mean, like some…life-sucking parasite or something." The singer's eyes widened then, and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "That is so fuckin _metal_. I _gotta_ write that down!" He proclaimed, voice raising an octave in excitement, and thundered out of the rehearsal auditorium to go retrieve his notebook.

"If I may inter_zchect _for a moment," Murderface piped up, clearing his throat. "Shkwishgaar, to be perfectly honesht, your guitar playingsh been shounding…_nnnnnoott_ ash good ash it could be. It jusht, it lacks…_zazz_." He paused to gauge the Swede's reaction, the continued. "Your lack of shleep obviouzhly shuggeztsh you've got shome _problemsh_ weighin' you down. I jusht wanna let you know…I'm alwaysh here to lishen. You're welcome to come and talk to me anytime you want, buddy."

Pickles, Toki, and Skwisgaar all gave the obviously fucked-up bassist a long look. And then Skwisgaar slid his X-plorer from his shoulders, turning back to the drummer and rhythm guitarist. "I be t'inkings…I's needing sleeps." And with that, he left the auditorium just as Nathan was skipping back in, face holding all the blinding joy of any lyricist who's just discovered a way to beat his writer's block. Too bad Skwisgaar was too sick and tired to stick around and see the end results unfurl themselves—it would undoubtably be epic.

As soon as rehearsal ended, Toki immediately headed for Skwisgaar's room with the fast, straightforward strides of a man with a purpose.

"Skwisgaar?" He knocked at the Swede's bedroom door, tentatively at first, but when there was no answer he began banging on the the wood. "Skwisgaar, I know you's in dere! Opens up, I wants to has a talk with you!"

Finally, after what seemed like several minutes but was really only a couple, Skwisgaar flung the door open—and Toki gasped. The Swede's long blond hair was in disarray, sticking to his shockingly sallow face by way of a thin layer of sweat; he had circles under his eyes so dark they put his onstage corpse-and-black-eyepaint makeup to shame; he appeared to be so weak that he needed to lean against the doorframe to support himself. "Whats de fucks you _want_, Toki?" He rasped.

"Talks," He repeated. "About why yous so sick all de times lately."

There was silence for a moment before Skwisgaar realized that no amount of cajoling would deter Toki—the hardened worried expression on the Norwegian's face said he wasn't going any-fucking-where until he got some answers. With a weary sigh, Skwisgaar stepped aside and gestured inward to his room with an extended arm. "Comes on, dildos."

They sat on the edge of the bed, the blanket rumpled where the Swede had thrown it aside after hearing Toki banging on the door. He hadn't really intended to fall asleep as per Pickles's suggestion, but after reaching his room and setting eyes on his bed, the urge was immediate and violent—he hadn't even bothered to strip his clothes off before lying down, drawing the fur blanket over himself, and slipping into a deep and blissful nap before being so rudely awakened.

Stupid dildo Toki, being such a barbaric, intrusive asshole. Honestly, he really had no right barging into Skwisgaar's personal business, and the Swede was just about to vocalize this fact when Toki opened his mouth first: "Boy, you really looks terrible, Skwisgaar."

"I knows," Skwisgaar sighed, clasping his hands together and looking down at them, twiddling his thumbs absently. "Is just froms not sleepings, I ams guessing."

"No, no, Skwisgaar, is not just dat," Toki persisted. "You is not been joins-ing us in de festivals of drinkings, either. Why is dat?"

Skwisgaar pursed his lips and stared straight ahead, down at the floor, to his left, anywhere but to his right, where the overly curious Norwegian sat next to him. What could he say, that he was carrying the 'pureblood' child belonging to himself and the realm of Vanir? That this 'blessed miracle' had resulted from a late-night encounter with a goddess of Asgård? Not fuckin likely. "Is none of your business, dildos. Why is you here, anysways? Shouldn't yous be in de re-hoars-al halls?"

"Practicionings is over, Skwisgaar. I comes to checks in on yous." Toki replied. "You is sick, aren't yous? What is to be de matter's with you, Skwisgaar?"

"IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, TOKI." Skwsigaar shouted, suddenly angry and not quite sure why. However, the anger quickly dissipated when he saw the hurt expression on Toki's face. He sighed and ran a hand through his already-tousled hair. "I don't knows whats is de matters wis me, Toki. Is not really anyt'ings for yous to be worry-inkgs about, though."

"But I _is_ worrieds about you, Skwisgaar," Toki persisted. "You is big sluts-bastard, but you is also my friends. I don't wants to be seeings you sick like dis!"

Skwisgaar said nothing for a moment, letting Toki's words sink in before he closed his eyes and pointed to the door. "Just leaves me alones, Toki."

And then, without any comments or protests, amazingly enough, the Norwegian stood and made his way across the room, opening the door and making as if to leave, but before he acutally did so he glanced over his shoulder and said to Skwisgaar: "Fine. Stays in here and dies, you stupids selves-fish asshole."

The door swung shut behind him.


	2. You's Gonna Be A Daddies!

Chapter Two: You's Gonna Be A Daddies!

His dream had been pleasant at the beginning, light and airy, not obnoxiously happy-prancy-fag-gay-flowery-meadow airy, but rather a serene sort of whiteness that made him feel safe, invincible. He relished in the sensation while he sat atop a cloud and played his guitar, no amp present that he could see and yet the sound ringing out with an unparalleled clarity. Yes, it was a simple dream, this floating whiteness, but it felt nice all the same. Skwisgaar didn't have much to make him feel nice in the waking world, so this was especially lavished upon.

As he played, he drifted; the cloud he sat on began its slow, gentle trek across the horizon, chasing the invisible sun. Skwisgaar lay on his back and stared up at the ethereal white sky, clutching the neck of his X-plorer against his chest with one hand, the other arm lazily flung out to the side. His hair was splayed out on the cloud like an undulating sheath of golden silk. He closed his eyes, feeling a slight breeze pick up and liking the feel of the wind against his face.

Then the cloud changed its course. Instead of the languid floating it had been preoccupied with beforehand, it sped up, actually moving. Fast, as if it had been outfitted with an engine and someone had their foot floored on the gas pedal. The sudden change in momentum caused Skwisgaar's eyes to jolt open. Confused, he rose to his knees and crawled over to the edge of the cloud, cautiously peering over the edge. Where there had once been nothing save for the ubiquitous whiteness there was now a landscape distinguishable. He was hovering over Mordhaus.

WHAM! The cloud abruptly, violently, dropped. It just fucking fell straight out of the sky, like a plane hit by severe turbulence. Skwisgaar screamed and grabbed his guitar, embracing it as if it were a parachute-befitted backpack, a lifeline. He saw the fast-approaching ground and closed his eyes, bracing for the impact, preparing to die.

He didn't die—hell, he wasn't even injured—but it sure hurt like a motherfucker.

Skwisgaar groaned and rolled over, feeling the grit of dirt against his face, the acrid taste of it in his mouth. He spat and pushed himself to his knees, head reeling, before he spotted his X-plorer a few feet away from him, crushed and desecrated almost beyond recognition.

His eyes widened, and he hurriedly crawled over to the carnage, fingers trembling as he picked up the little bits and pieces, trying to make sense of where they might go, attempting valiantly to fix the broken body of his beloved guitar even though he knew his efforts were futile.

"No, no, no, you stupids fucking piece of shit…" Realizing that this repair job was beyond his depth—beyond anyone's depth—he swiped up the largest salvageable piece—the headstock—and clutched it tightly, aware of the few missing silver tuning knobs.

He spat a curse in Swedish, roughly pushing himself to his feet and giving his mutilated guitar one last look before turning around and trudging in the direction of the 'haus, looming massive and ominous in the distance. Home sweet home.

The barbecue pit was deserted—there was no masked, heavily-muscled cook flipping burgers on the grill, no Nathan or Toki or Pickles lounging by the picnic table, no Murderface carving up the small tree with his huge ass knife. Not that there would've been anything to carve had the hateful bassist been present; the emaciated, charred, spindly ghost of what might've once been a tree was a sad and pathetic tribute to Murderface's personal doodle pad.

In fact, Skwisgaar noticed, all the trees were like that—dead, decayed, blackened. Not that the deterioration of living things was exquisitely uncommon among Mordhaus, but at least some of the trees on the real-life grounds had bark. And had the sky always been this grey, this bleak? Skwisgaar could recall the sun shining onto the 'haus grounds at least once since the massive structure had been constructed. Still, bleakness and darkness was the prime objectivity of Dethklok and all things affilliated with the name. Dream Mordhaus was pretty much the same as Waking Mordhaus. Nothing here to cause panic.

Yet.

Skwisgaar reached one of the several entrances to the 'haus and walked right through the fifteen-foot-tall, ornately carved doors. "Hellos?" He called out. "Anybodys in here? Nate'n? Pickle? Moider Face? Toki?" Pause. "Ofd…Ofsen…den…robots butler?"

His answering call was a strong gust of cold air from the corridor to his right.

He ventured down the hall, noticing the layout of this wing of the 'haus was different than it normally was. There were more doors, darker shadows. He wondered what could be waiting in those shadows, what could be ready to pounce, shred, kill. He shivered and tried not to imagine glowing eyes in the darkness. "Is dere anybodys in here?" He repeated, waited a few moments, and then said it again a little louder. "HELLOS?"

"_Skwisgaar…is that you?_"

The Swede jumped at the hoarse, cracking Norwegian moan. He immediately knew who was calling his name. "_Where are you, Toki?_" He yelled back in Swedish, automatically glancing around, trying to discern anything in this darkness that would possibly lead him to Toki.

Toki didn't say anything after that, and Skwisgaar's heart picked up speed, slamming against his chest and threatening to maim his ribcage. "_TOKI!" _He hollered, spinning around, feeling frantic. This was all extremely unnerving—frightening, even.

But when the Norwegian did reply it did nothing to alleviate Skwisgaar's panic; in fact, it made it worse. "_I'm lost, Skwisgaar. We are all lost. Lost…forever…_" Toki's voice grew softer, echoing around Skwisgaar in all directions.

"_Dildo Toki! Stop talking like that and fucking tell me where you are already!_" Skwisgaar growled, fear making him hostile. He stumbled over the suddenly uneven floor, flinging a hand out in hopes of finding the rough stone wall and steadying himself.

"_Don't bother looking for me, Skwisgaar…you're lost just like me. We're all lost in this hell…lost…"_

"SHITS!" Skwisgaar yelped, feeling the floor give way beneath him.

He landed with a loud and very painful _THUMP_ against whatever he'd ended up landing on—probably stone; it was cold and hard like stone, anyway.

"Fuck…" Skwisgaar muttered, pressing a hand to his head, feeling a thin trickle of blood seeping down from his scalp. His right hip throbbed, and his palms were scraped, but his knees had taken the brunt of the damage to his already battered body. He tried to stand, faltered, and collapsed again with a strangled noise of pain.

"_I told you not to come looking for me_," said Toki, but where from, Skwisgaar wasn't entirely sure. Wherever he was now was pitch-mother-fucking-black, not the barest trace of light to be found. He had no idea where he'd fallen, but he guessed it was underground, maybe the Mordhaus basement.

Skwisgaar groaned and closed his eyes. "_Stop playing around, Toki—where the fuck ARE you?"_

"_That doesn't matter,_" replied Toki. "_We are both lost souls in this world of eternal lust and sin. Here, the darkness is your only friend—the screams of the other lost ones your only solace. So you see, Skwisgaar, my dear friend, there is no use looking for me because there is no reason to find me. Lost, forever…"_

And then Toki laughed, but it wasn't Toki's laugh, no, not at all. This—this entity, this demon, this whatever the fuck it was—cackled maliciously, the voice that sounded like Toki's own took on several different pitches and tones, varying from whispery twitters to shrieking wails, so that it sounded like a hundred Tokis instead of just one.

Skwisgaar curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself tightly, trying to blot out the crescendo of voices and finding his efforts to be in vain. His whole body was awash with throbbing, aching pain, sharper in some areas than others; his hair was matted with blood and dirt, tangled horrendously and sticking to his sweat-matted face; a queasy feeling had begun to settle in the pit of his stomach, intensifying with each moment the evil laughter continued.

Finally, Skwisgaar could take it no more—he screamed, long and loud and hard, his own wail lost among the omnipotent voices of his fellow lost souls.

**- x - x - x -**

He woke himself up screaming, heart pounding like a double-kick, cold sweat streaking liquid traces down his back.

"_SKWISGAAAARRRR!_" Toki kicked the door in, the impact being enough to shatter the entire frame. "SKWISGAAR, SKWISGAAR, NO WORRIES, I'S HERE TO SAVES YOU!"

Skwisgaar fought to regain composure, breathing heavily, clutching the blanket to his chest. "…_I thought you were with the lost ones_," He rasped, voice hoarse from screaming.

"De losts ones?" Toki echoed, standing in the doorway. "Oh, Skwisgaar, you ams de-lear-lee-us! Yous not dyings, is you?" His voice—his own, familiar, Toki voice—was filled with concern, with worry.

When Skwisgaar didn't answer, Toki crossed the room in two big strides and knelt by the Swede's bedside, placing a hand on his forehead. "Wowie, Skwisgaar, yous am gonna burst into de flame if you gets any hotter!"

Skwisgaar was still only half-aware of his surroundings, still not sure if he was in the basement or not; however, he was damn sure aware of the queasy feeling in his stomach getting worse by the second. He grimaced, groaned, and shoved Toki aside, sprinting for the bathroom.

It took Toki a minute to register what had just happened—Skwisgaar's shove had caught him off-guard, and as he sat there blinking dazedly, he finally did realize what'd gone down just then.

The silvery streams of moonlight filtering through the large glass panes on the far wall enabled Toki to find his way to the bathroom without difficulty; albeit, he wasn't quite sure _why_ he decided to follow Skwisgaar in the first place. Oh well.

"Skwisgaar?" Toki lingered in the doorway, furrowing his brow when he heard the sounds of the Swede's retching. "Are you's all right?"

"Goes…away, Toki." Was the response.

Toki wasn't having that. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he flicked on the light, making a face as he saw Skwisgaar's awesomely naked self hunched over the toilet, puking his guts out, a few strands of long blond hair falling into the bowl. He certainly wasn't having a picnic, that was for damn sure.

"Oh…Skwisgaar, somethings really, really wrongs with you, huh?" Toki mumbled. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not expecting a reply from the sick Swede and not getting one, either. After a moment's deliberation, Toki went over and crouched down by Skwisgaar, pulling his hair away from his face in a surprisingly neutral manner. "No worries, Skwisgaar. I takes you to de doctor when you's finished, and we finds out whats wrong with you—we gets you medicine to makes you better in no's time!"

Skwisgaar felt his heart skip a beat. He began to panic. "You takes me to de doctors and I shoves your fucking guitars rights up you—" He doubled over and heaved again, cutting his sentence off midway so that Toki would never find out where his guitar would end up. Then again, he probably would.

Toki couldn't think of a rebuttal to Skwisgaar's blatant threat, so he simply sat there in silence, holding the Swede's hair away from his face, waiting for him to finish.

"You feels better?" Toki asked afterwards, relinquishing his hold on Skwisgaar's hair as he sat back from the toilet and wiped a hand across his mouth.

With a sigh, Skwisgaar turned to look at the Norwegian. "I has not felt goods for a while, Toki."

"Well, dat's obvious." Toki's brow furrowed. "But why you not tells me _why_ you's so sick, Skwisgaar? I's worrieds about you, you know. I's thinking yous—"

"Toki."

"—parasite or somethings, like Nate'n saids. Maybe—"

"Toki."

"—_does_ haves a parasite! Parasites baby, like Murderface—"

"…_Toki_."

"—de river pests, maybe yous takes a piss offa de Dethboat and gets de parasites _dat_ way—"

"TOKI."

"—and, whats, Skwisgaar?"

The Swede bit his lip, averting his gaze from the ice blue eyes of his enemy-friend. He knew he was out of his fucking mind for what he was about to do, but it was better than any other explanation he could think of, and besides, it would probably shut Toki up for a minute or two. "…I ams…wis de child's."

"…..what means dat?"

Skwisgaar slumped over and rested his forehead against the rim of the toilet bowl, feeling like an enormous jackass. "De goddess Freyja visiteds me in de night, gives me dis purebloods child sos I ams worthy of enterings de halls of Valhalla. Is comps-li-cated, Toki. I, ah…can'ts really explains it right now."

One second passed. Then two. Then five. Then Toki blinked and said, "I don't thinks you's are capes-able of makings dis up, Skwisgaar."

"Are yous callings me stupids, dildo?"

"No, I's just…" Toki fumbled for the right words; it seemed he was having a Nathan Explosion-worthy case of not being able to express himself. "…_why_?"

Skwisgaar sighed again. Boy this was getting redundant. "I has a dark soul, Toki. De gods of Æsir are to be t'inkings dis is de only way to saves me. Rees-demp-shon. I has a kid, my souls is saveds. Is not to be makings any fucking sense to me either, but dere is no un-doings it now, I am afraids."

More silence. Horrible, painful, awkward-as-fuck silence. Skwisgaar regretted stripping Toki of whatever fueled his inane babbling; he'd be pretty damn grateful for it right about now. _I's such a fucking idi-otts-tick moron,_ he thought. _Now Toki is probablies to be t'inkings I's some psycho nut jobs who belong in de san…sanis…sanit…de house for mentals case. Fucking crazies. Except I's not crazy; is all true—_

"Oh, wowie!" Toki shrieked suddenly, clapping his hands together with glee. "You ams havings a _baby_, Skwisgaar!"

And then he very abruptly threw his arms around the dumbstruck Swede, squeezing him tightly and leaning his head on Skwisgaar's shoulder. "Is kind of weirds, wis you being de guy and alls, but who cares, you's gonna be a daddies!" More gushing, squealing, squeezing. Skwisgaar found himself tiring of this very quickly.

"Toki," He said very calmly. "If you don'ts get offs of me right now I swears to de gods _demsel-eves_ dat I will—"

"Oh, I's sorries, Skwisgaar! I's squishings de baby, ams I?" Toki's eyes grew huge, and a stricken expression slid across his face. "I's sorries, sorries!"

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "No, Toki, de fucking kids is fine."

"Dat's good." Toki sighed in relief. Then his eyes widened again. "But Skwisgaar, if you's hasing a baby, shouldn't yous be goings to de doctor anyways? For de check's up?"

The Swede visibly balked at the thought. "Fucks no, Toki! I is not gonna go to de fucking _doctors_ and get treat-sed like de fucking science expi…exp…de fucking _science project!"_ He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then continued, noteably less riled up than before. "Asides of dat, de goddess Freyja watch overs me _constantlies_. Is startingks to gets annoying, to tell de truths. I don'ts care dat she's de hottest fucking lady I's ever seen, she's startings to piss me off a little bits."

"Oh, Skwisgaar, she's just to be makings sure de baby is okay, dat it ain't gonna comes out all messeds up 'cause of de drinkings—" Toki gasped, realization dawning at long last. "So DAT'S why you hasn't been drinkings with de rest of de band! Wowie, Skwisgaar, you's sure to be takings dis seriouslys."

"Is not for de kids dat I ams not drinkings," Skwisgaar muttered, thinking back to his last encounter with Freyja, of how enraged she'd been after finding out the Swede was continuing to consume alcohol after she'd impregnated him. He dared not tempt her wrath any futher, lest he most likely end up with sextuplets or something equally as terror-provoking.

Either Toki hadn't heard that last statement or he didn't care; probably the former, for if he'd heard the latter come out of Skwisgaar's mouth he'd have undoubtably thrown a fit over the lack of concern for the child or some bullshit like that.

"Oh, wowie, Skwisgaar, dis is gonna be so much _funs!" _Toki squealed, clasping his hands together and bringing them up under his chin, smiling adoringly. "I's gonna to helps you takes care of you and de baby in your bellys!"

It turned out the beaming Norwegian had quite the set of unmitigated balls, for he then reached out and actually gave the Swede's still-flat stomach a daring pat.

Skiwsgaar's eye twitched, and he jumped at the sudden contact, slamming his spine against the bathtub. "Keeps your fucking hands _offs_ of me, you big dildo shits-head!" He yelled, wrapping an arm around his middle in efforts of protection.

"Aw, you just says dat cause yous de hoar's-moan-all," Toki excused, waving a hand dismissively. "Now comes on, Skwisgaar, yous to be needings rest! Is not good for de baby to be stayings up all of de night's time."

And then Skwisgaar had nothing to do except let Toki drag his still-awesomely-naked self out of the bathroom and throw him on the bed, practically smothering him with the rabbit fur blanket after he'd done so.

It was at that moment the Swede noticed the exploded, splintered hunk of wood that had been previously known as his bedroom door lying on the floor by his bed. The frame was cracked in a few places, the hinges completely gone.

"…Toki?"

"Yes what is its?"

"You kicks my doors in?"

"Oh…yeah, I's real sorries about dat, Skwisgaar. I thought you was beings attack-sed and rapes to death, de way yous screamings."

"…..so yous decides-ed to kick de doors in?"

"I comes to save you, Skwisgaar. Nos to worries, I fix it in de mornings. Right now yous needing rest. Yous sick and withs de childs."

Skwisgaar sighed explosively and pulled the blanket over his head, deciding no further commentary was necessary. Besides, he was still pretty tired after his recent performance…

He heard Toki yawn. "Boy, I's tireds too…I's thinking…I just sleeps here wis you, Skwisgaar." He crawled into bed beside the Swede, who was too far out of it at the point to argue, and curled up on his side. "Dat way I cans…watches over you and…remembers to be fixing de doors tomorrow…" And then he was out, snoring softly.

**- x - x - x -**

Of course, Toki lacked the necessary skills to be fixing de doors, so he just ended up propping it against the wall and calling it good until a Mordhaus repairman could come by later.

"Stupids dumb dildo tits jerk asshole—" Toki grumbled, kicking at a stray hinge lying on the floor.

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Never minds, Toki. Let's us just goes down to de breakfasts meal, ah? Honestly, I's startings to get hungry."

"Oh, yeah! Comes on, Skwisgaar, yous and de babys needs to eat!" He grabbed the Swede's wrist and towed him downstairs, ignoring the sharp cries of 'lets me de fucks go!' and 'gyah! Stupids dildo-head!' the whole way.

Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface were already in the dining hall, contentedly eating breakfast. Well, to put it more specifically: Nathan was eating, Murderface was alternating between eating and reading the newspaper, and Pickles (in his stained tighty-whiteys, of course) was sucking off a Bloody Mary, his plate of food untouched. All in all, it was pretty much a normal Mordhaus breakfast.

Until the two Scandinavian guitarists burst through the doors, rhythm dragging along a vehemently protesting lead.

Pickles was the first to look up. "Gad…th'hell've _you_ two been up'ta lately? Jest friggen come burstin in here like a coupla wild ass…gad, fuckin hyenas r'samthin." He set his now-empty glass down and buried his face in his hands. "Fuckin Christ, m'heads fuckin _killin_ me…"

Nathan paused in lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth to look up at the Scand Lads. "Huh…better tell Jean-Pierre to make some more food." The face-feeding resumed. This was actually somewhat astonishing, seeing as the frontman would've normally said something like, 'breakfast started a half-hour ago, dickbrains' or 'huh huh, look who's spendin the night together'. Must've been the fact that Scand Lad the Blond had recently assisted him in overcoming his godforsaken writer's block, put him in a relatively good mood for the time being.

Murderface did not spare the guitarists a glance; he simply shoved another spoonful of beans in his mouth and rustled his paper. God he could get engrossed in his reading.

"Hellos, everyone!" Scand Land the Strong greeted cheerfully, prancing over to the two empty chairs beside Nathan and sitting in one of them. His salutation was ignored, but he didn't seem to mind, instead pulling out the chair next to him and looking over at Skwisgaar. "Come, come sits down, Skwisgaar—yous not needings to be standings around like dat."

Skwisgaar facepalmed and edged into the seat TokiMyMiddleNameIsOverzealous!Wartooth held out for him, propping his chin on his hand and refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Fortunately no one else heard Toki's comment about Skwisgaar's not needing to stand around; instead, Nathan pushed his plate away, daintily dabbed at his mouth with the black embroidered napkin on the table, and began to talk business.

"All right, guys, Ofdensen says we've got one'a those dumbass store openings to go to this afternoon—and I don't wanna hear any goddamn bitching; trust me, I don't wanna go either, but we're getting paid to do this, and all we have to do is like, stand around and listen to a bunch of jackoffs ask for our autographs. Deal?"

"Nyehh…fine." Pickles mumbled, sighing resignedly.

**- x - x - x -**

Slovkador Voldorrigarth's Fetish Shop and Fancy Cheese Emporium was a quaint little brick building sandwiched between Gold Wash 'n' Dry Laundromat and Kim Cheng's Insurance Agency in the downtown area, and neither of the two latter buildings had ever received so much publicity as that afternoon, when Dethklok—followed by hundreds of local and some distant fans, and of course, encircled by no less than eight hooded bodyguards and Ofdensen—stood in front of Voldorrigarth's, Nathan holding the scissors, poised and ready over the bright red ribbon held by the other band members, two flanking him on either side. But no one seemed to be happier than Voldorrigarth himself, a squat little Romanian man with a lipless, yellow-toothed smile and scraggly grey hair standing by the entrance to his shop.

"**TODAY IS A GREAT AND MONUMENTAL DAY FOR ALL YOU REGULAR JACKOFFS OUT THERE," **Nathan boomed. **"FOR NEVER BEFORE HAVE YOU BEEN ABLE TO TAKE A STROLL DOWNTOWN AND STOP INTO A FETISH SHOP SLASH FANCY CHEESE EMPORIUM SO BRUTALLY AND EPICALLY FUCKING METAL AS THIS ONE**."

He opened the scissors a little wider, delaying the moment, building tension.

"**SO I GIVE TO YOU THIS…THIS GIFT TO YOU, ALL YOU REGULAR JACKOFFS AND PITIFUL MORTALS OUT THERE…..SLOVKADOR VOLDORRIGARTH'S FETISH SHOP AND FANCY CHEESE EMPORIUUUUUUMMMMM**."

And with that, he cut the ribbon, the two severed halves falling to the sidewalk in a dramatic, fluttery heap.

"**FEEL FREE TO BROWSE AND PURCHASE FROM THESE FINE SELECTIONS OF QUALITY FETISH WEAR AND FANCY CHEESE SAMPLEESSSSSSS**." Nathan growled into his mic one last time before throwing it into the crowd, grinning a little as it whacked some douchebag in the face and gave him a real cool blowjob.

After Dethkok had morphed aside, allowing the throngs of fans to surge forward and trample Voldorrigarth into the cement in their haste to enter the store, the band retreated to their favorite rendezvous point designated especially for these kinds of public events: the Duncan Hills Coffee Shop located two streets away.

Thankfully, there were no other patrons in the café—seeing as all their usual customers were down at the store opening—when the band smashed through the door a few minutes later, bell tinkling cheerfully behind them.

The bored-looking cashier, who'd been sitting behind the counter reading a magazine, looked up at the sound of the bell and nearly shat himself with unrestrained joy at the sight of Dethklok standing in the doorway. "Wuh—welcome to the Duncan H-Hills Café! How can I help you, my lords?"

"Just coffee…uh, please." Nathan grunted, hulking over to a nearby table, whipping out a wrought iron chair and slouching into it. The others followed suit while the frazzled sole employee busied himself with readying five cups of Norwegian Blackened Blood Coffee.

"I wonder, if zey shtill have thoshe shinnamon bunsh," Murderface pondered. "Y'know, zat limited time offer bullshit zey had goin on lasht time we shtopped by."

"Oh, dood, yeah, I think they do!" Pickles's mood seemed to brighten exponentially at this sudden realization, and he straightened up in his chair, fishing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. This was obviously a cause for celebration.

"Hey, you mind, uh, lighting me up one of those?" Nathan asked.

Pickles handed Nathan his own cigarette and lit another, blowing a ring of smoke at the ceiling. "Hey, ken one a'ya remind me ta go online later and look up that…friggin Cinnabon franchise site or whatever. Gotta buy that, man. Gotta fuckin buy that." He took another drag, closing his eyes as he inhaled. "Usually jest too fuckin drunk ta do it in person."

The cashier bustled out to their table, then, bearing a silver tray with five huge steaming mugs of coffee and all the fixings. "On the house, my lords."

"Huh…thanks." Nathan swiped up his mug and took a hearty swig, not bothering to add any cream or sugar.

"Oh, my pleasure, my pleasure," The cashier assured. "Please, feel free to let me know of any problems. It'd be my distinct honor to do everything in my power to—"

"Ja, whatevers, just be gettings de fuck away from us, ah?" Skwisgaar snapped, raising his coffee to his lips and taking a sip.

The cashier nodded and skipped away, grinning like an absolute idiot after being cussed at by the world's fastest guitarist.

"Aw, Shkwishgaar, I wuz _jusht_ gonna ashk about the shinnamon bunsh…" Murderface pouted, folding his arms and glaring daggers at his mug of coffee.

"Well, dat's just too bads, dat guy's was fucking annoyings de hell out of me." Skwisgaar replied, furrowing his brow and giving his own coffee a venomous stare.

"Oh, wowie! Chocolates bee-scottys!" Toki exclaimed, snatching up one of the dark brown crustified medieval-era breadsticks and dunking it vigorously into his coffee before taking a huge bite out of it, a blissful expression sliding across his mustachioed face.

Pickles put out his cigarette on the black formica table, flicking the butt onto the floor. "'Ey, any a'you guys seen that new movie…eh, can't remember what it's called. It's the one with that, trailer 'bout that…legless chick boxer 'er whatever."

"Oh, yeah, that looks pretty good." Nathan commented, setting his empty skull mug on the table with a resounding _thunk_. "Gotta go see that when it comes out…or…if it..came out." He trailed off, digging around in his pockets and whipping out his Handy Dandy Voice Recorder ™.

"Legless chick boxer," He uttered into the device before nonchalantly shoving it back in his pocket.

Toki swallowed the last of his chocolate bee-scotty, chasing it with a long gulp of coffee and picking up another stick before glancing up at Skwisgaar. "You wants to be splittings dis one, Skwisgaar?" He offered.

The Swede took one look at that nasty ass biscotti and promptly shook his head, burying his face in his hands in an effort to alleviate the sudden surge of nausea. Goddamn this pureblood of Æsir—Skwisgaar was definitely going to have words with Freyja the next time she decided to visit him.

As if reading his thoughts, the little future savior inside Skwisgaar expressed its (his, hers, whatever, he had no fucking idea the gender of the thing; he'd just barely gotten used to acknowledging its existence) displeasure by emitting a violent gush of heat that radiated through the Swede's core. It wasn't soothing—in fact, it only made him feel sicker. Without a word, Skwisgaar hastily stood and made his way toward the small unisex bathroom in the back of the café.

"What's up with that guy lately?" Nathan inquired, raising a blacker-than-the-blackest-black-times-infinity eyebrow as the door slammed shut behind Skwisgaar. "I still say it's a life-sucking parasite."

"Yeeeahh…" Pickles had a weird look on his face as he raised his coffee mug to his mouth and took a swig, adding an amber fluid from the silver flask pulled out of his pocket. When he drank from it again, he seemed much more satisfied. A smirk touched his lips and he took another hearty pull from the mug before slamming it down on the table like a shotglass.

"Muscht be schomething wrong wif his shtomach," Murderface concurred, idly stirring his coffee. "Maybe he shaw his mom walkin outshide the shtore or schomethin'."

Everyone except Toki laughed at that. The Norwegian furrowed his brow, clenching the biscotti in his fist. Those assholes had no idea what was going on inside Skwisgaar right now, and they had the gall to laugh at him in his current state? Motherfuckers.

Funny; Toki normally wouldn't concern himself with Skwisgaar like this, but of course, these were anything but normal circumstances taking place. Sure, they goaded each other mercilessly during practice and just about every other encounter during the day, ridiculing each other, trying to upstage each other, etcetera, etcetera. But when push came to shove, Skwisgaar and Toki were still friends. And friends looked out for each other, right? And, during those rare occasions when they could both acknowledge the presence of that friendship, Skwisgaar was usually the one looking out for the younger and more naïve Toki. And now Skwisgaar needed him; he had to step up.

"_Stops laughing at him!"_ Toki banged his fists on the table, making the coffee mugs—and the other three band members, for that matter—jump a foot in the air. Before anyone had a chance to speak, Toki continued. "Skwisgaar sick, real real sick, and you all just sits dere and LAUGHS at him? You has no fucking _idea_ whats he is to be goings through rights now! You _stupids cocksucking _ASSHOLES!"

Complete and utter silence descended upon the formerly cackling trio, expressions coalescing into similar arrangements of unconcealed shock and what might've been mild amusement had Toki not looked so fucking scary right now—muscles bulging, veins engorged, cold-as-fucking-ice blue eyes filled with terror-evoking, pants-shittingly frightening wild Viking rage. He appeared to be only a few seconds away from snapping completely, if he hadn't done so already.

The rest of the band knew not to ever fuck with Toki—especially after seeing what he'd done to that stupid bastard at the Snakes 'n' Barrels Sobertown USA tour concert—so no one dared speak a word that even suggested a challenge.

"Uh…Toki?" Nathan finally ventured. "Maybe you could just…sit down, take a breath? I mean, Christ…didn't know Skwisgaar was so important to you…uh, I guess."

Toki hissed something in Norwegian that sounded distinctly vulgar to the frontman, but he actually did oblige and sit back down, though he still silently seethed.

Then the cause of all this sudden awkward, rage-infused silence slunk out of the bathroom, looking visibly worse for wear. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and leaned against the door, running his fingers through his long hair and then letting his arms drop limply to his sides with an almost inaudible sigh.

Toki, still on his Viking-blood high, took a few minutes to realize Skwisgaar's presence, and when he did, he practically ran over to the Swede, concern just _oozing_ from every fibre of his being.

"Are yous all rights?" Toki asked, low enough for Skwisgaar and no one else in the world to hear.

Skwisgaar opened his eyes and just looked at Toki. "Don'ts to be worryings about me, Toki—I's perfect-dlies fine."

"But yous just—"

"So? Big deals, I doos it all de times." Skwisgaar shrugged, hoping his indifference would placate Toki.

"Um, excuse me? Hey, hi, is there anything I can help you two with?" That damn cashier poked his head around the corner, smiling in a pedophiliac kind of way that could make Mr. Rogers's skin crawl.

"Uh, is we _askings_ for any fucking helps from you? No, I don'ts think so! Gets dat fucking _ugly_ face of yours _out_ of mine's _sight_ or else I wills be comings over dere and gouging out your eyes and fillings dem empty holes wis de hots coffee and also I wills to shovings my foots _rights up your ass _ANDS WHY DE FUCKS ARE YOUS STILL STANDINGS DERE? GO, GO, _GETS OUT OF HERES!"_

And then Skwisgaar proceeded that tangent with a few nice Swedish death threats before that cashier finally got the notion into his head that the pissed-off guitarist would most likely be following through on his promises of maiming, so he hauled ass straight out the front door and down the street, throwing himself in front of an oncoming semi that was going too fast to stop or see him, and he inevitably ended up a nice blood and guts explosion, to Nathan's great delight.

All in all, it was basically a normal outing for Dethklok.


	3. Dey's Gonna Finds Out, Just Tells Dem!

**Chapter Three: Dey's Gonna Finds Out Soons Enough, So Why Not Just Tells Dem Now?**

The weeks crawled by, progress was made on the new album thanks to Nathan's life-sucking-parasite-legless-chick-boxer-blood-and-guts-explosion inspiration, and the Pureblood Of Æsir continued to grow, much to superficial Skwisgaar's utter dismay.

Of course, Toki could tell right away when the Swede walked into the rehearsal hall on a particularly warm day wearing a loose-fitting black turtleneck that he hadn't worn since last winter, as accustomed to his usual skintight, tucked-in tank top. So, so blatantly obvious—Skwisgaar really had his blonde moments from time to time, and now was one of those times. Well, at least to Toki.

The rest of Dethklok raised their eyebrows but said nothing, instead jumping right into "Flog Me With Your Animatronic Legs". This song was, as usual/like all other Dethklok songs in history, a fast-paced mosh-pit sounding ditty, so Skwisgaar inevitably began to work up a sweat, but he dared not take the sweater off for gut-wrenching fear of exposing the very small but defined presence of Æsir's Little Prince inside him.

Practice ended. Skwisgaar flipped his hair out of his face and immediately set off for his room, eager to find the privacy he'd need to take this damn turtleneck off (yes, his door did eventually get fixed). Come to think of it, a shower sounded pretty fucking good right about now. Yeah, a shower too, then.

Oh ho ho, but who would come along with all intents and purposes of ruining his cold-and-water filled delusions of splendour?

Hint-slash-Answer: It was Toki.

"Hey, Skwisgaar," Toki cooed. His voice was sweet. Too sweet. He had a devilish glint in his eyes, a coy smile on his face. "Where's you to be goings so fast?"

"Whats it to yous?" Skwisgaar retaliated, not daring to stop for even a moment. He walked faster, knowing his room was not far away now. God, why'd Mordhaus have to be so fucking _big_? Seriously, was this grand stature really necessary? It was more annoying and complicated than anything, really, all grandeur aside.

Toki matched his pace to Skwisgaar's. "You lookings like yous to be in a hurries. Why de big rushes, Skwisgaar?" God the kid could be positively evil when he wanted to be.

"Is none of your business, leaves me alone!" Skwisgaar broke into a run, edging around a corner and spotting his bedroom door within seconds. Strangely enough, he had this gut feeling he wouldn't make it there.

Guess what? He was right.

Toki sprinted after him and, being much stronger and faster…well, in everything except guitar…he caught up to the Swede and promptly wrapped his arms around his torso, pinning him to the wall with a mischevious look on his face.

"I gots yous."

"Gyah! Let's me de fucks down!" Skwisgaar struggled uselessly, his arms and legs completely restrained. Holy hell, but Toki was strong.

"Nots until you lets me _sees_!" Toki declared, eyes narrowing almost maliciously.

Skwisgaar was momentarily taken-aback. "Seesk _what_?"

"Don'ts be playings dumb, Skwisgaar—yous is _showsings_, isn't yous?"

"I has no idea whats you are—hey! WHATS DE _HELLS_ ARE YOU _DOING?"_ Skwisgaar screamed.

He watched, anger transmutating into sheer mortification, as Toki passed his hand over the slight bump underneath the sweater.

The Norwegian looked up with a grin and a gleam in his eyes Skwisgaar couldn't identify. "Is so _cute_, Skwisgaar!"

Skwisgaar squirmed uncomfortably, feeling the blood rush to his face. "Dere, you sees, now wills you be LETTINGS ME DE FUCK DOWNS?"

Toki released Skwisgaar, who began pulling his sweater down farther, even though it hadn't even been pulled up in the first place. Nervous reaction, then. "Don'ts be touchings me like dat ever again, you hears me? I will KILLS you next time you doos somet'ings like dat!"

And with that, the Swede swept dramatically into his room, slamming the door behind him with such force as to rattle the already weakened frame. "Stupids fucking…dildo t'inks he can justs up and touches me whens-ever he feel like it," He grumbled, irritation only reminding him more of his need to take a shower.

Skwisgaar hastily peeled off the damn sweater, tossing it aside where it landed on his bed in a flash of black amid an endless sea of white, his tank top soon following thereafter. He ran his fingers through his long blond hair, finding the roots to be sweat-dampened and the nape of his neck wet.

"Ugh, fucking re-hoars-all halls gots to be…two hundred _degrees_," He complained, continuing to swipe peevishly at his hair, gathering as much of it as he could in one hand and piling it on top of his head whilst using the other hand to switch on the plasma screen mounted on the opposite wall.

"…FAN SUICIDE RATE HAS GONE UP DUE TO THE ALBUM'S LATE RELEASE," The live on-the-scene newscaster clutched his mic in one hand, struggling to keep his hat on with the other, grimacing as another unseen gust of bleak and dark air nearly swept him off his feet. In the background, looming large and ominous as always, the dragon-headed Mordhaus provided the evidence that—and this realization made Skwisgaar sneer in annoyance—the media knew where Dethklok lived. Seriously, how the hell _had_ they figured that out?

Deciding not to dwell on it anymore lest he get even more pissed off, Skwisgaar turned the TV off and sauntered into the bathroom, looking forward to his shower and halfheartedly cursing for allowing himself the momentary distraction of television after all the effort he'd put forth in getting to his room unscathed. Well…almost unscathed.

Because when the Swede reached down to unbuckle his studded skull belt, his fingers grazed against his stomach in much the same way Toki's hand had, the memory accompanied by an all-too-familiar bloom of heat within Skwisgaar. Immediately, unconsciously, Skwisgaar pressed his own hand to his stomach, as if the warmth were a ball he could clutch, something solid to feel and know that it really did exist despite every law of nature it went against. And then he found himself tremendously shocked that he even _wanted_ the child to exist in the first place. This was all so wrong; so, so fucked up. Why did the gods of Æsir have to chose _him_, of all people, to offer their stupid fucking salvation to? Skwisgaar would've been perfectly fine screwing a different broad every night, drinking until he puked up his own liver, and snorting coke till his sinuses cracked and bled and the soft tissues of his brain dissolved. He would've lived his life the way he wanted to and died a happy man with no regrets.

Right?

The heat faded, then, and Skwisgaar lowered his hand with a sigh, kicking his boots off and sliding his pants to his ankles, stepping out of them and leaving them a rumpled pile on the floor as he crossed the threshold into the shower.

**- x - x - x -**

"Now's not the time to chicken out, Murderface, now's the time to shine!"

"But I _can't_!"

"Jest suck in yer stomach!"

"AARRGHH!"

"Augh, man, that…that does look painful, I have to say. Huh huh."

"C'MAHN, DOOD! ALMOST THERE!"

"DAMMIT PICKLESH, SCHUT UP! I CAN'T CONSHENTRATE!"

Eric von Weichlinghammer, renowned and reportedly most brutal fashion expert and clothing designer in the world, had just put the finishing touches on the new Dethfashion clothing line and decided to send a few samples of his work to the band for them to try out in much the same manner a budding novelist would send a rough draft in to a revered editor for him or her to proofread. Product had to be consumer-approved before it hit the market, that was that.

That being said, Murderface was currently playing the role of the consumer giving the yay or nay on Weichlinghammer's handmade leather chaps. And said leather chaps were dangerously close to ripping in several places as the overweight bassist struggled valiantly to button them around his bulging middle. Why Murderface ended up being the model instead of the ripped and chiseled Toki (kid was practically a fucking living tribute to some ancient Norse god of war) or even scrawny little Pickles was a mystery in and of itself. But then again, they were all properly shitfaced for the night, so a lot of things could be said on their lack of judgement when it came to the safety of their new and obscenely tight-fitting clothes and the modeling thereof.

"C'mon, Murderface, we've still got this whole fuckin pile over here to go through!" Nathan growled, stabbing a finger in the direction of the leather and spiked garments and accessories flung into a heap at the end of the couch.

"I'm _trying,_ dammit, but zhese fuckin pantsh won't but—"

_PLINK!_ The button snapped and ricocheted off the full-length mirror in front of Murderface, spiderwebbing the glass (or whatever the fuck mirrors are made of) and causing everyone else in the room to burst out with gut-wrenching guffaws while the bassist grumbled and retreated to the corner of the room to sulk and cut himself with the four-inch switchblade he always kept in his pocket.

Meanwhile Skwisgaar—who'd just woken up from an awesomely brutal nap and had been immediately met with an insane new breed of hunger after doing so—just so happened to be passing through on his way to the kitchen when he caught sight of the fiasco taking place.

"Dat Vysling-Hammer guy sends us de new clothes-ing line?" He inquried, momentarily forgetting about his growling stomach, frivolous intrigue masking physical need.

"Yeah, but Fat-Tits McLardAss over there's ruining all the clothes before they even…y'know, fuckin go on the assembly line."

"HEY, FUCK YOU, BUDDY!" Murderface roared, head pivoting towards the evilly grinning singer sprawled on the couch. "I DIDN'T EVEN WANNA DO THISH SCHIT IN ZHE FIRSHT PLACHE!"

"Till yeh saw those chaps at th' bottom a'th'pile," Pickles smirked.

That was the last straw. With an enraged, strangled war cry, Murderface rose to his feet and charged toward the drummer like a pissed-off bull, knife raised, blood running down the blade from his previous self-mutilation consolation, the fresh slices on his arm evidence to such. Pickles simply stepped out of the way and watched as Murderface, going too fast to stop himself in time, tripped over the large treasure-chest-esque steel-framed leather-strapped box the Dethfashion garments had arrived in.

"MOZSHER FUCKER-!" He bellowed.

Skwisgaar didn't stick around to see the aftermath; he simply folded his arms tighter and continued on his trek to acquire sustenance.

From the far side of the room a certain overprotective, unusually possessive Norwegian saw him leave and quickly jumped up, hurrying after in the same direction.

The Swede, in his driven haste, neglected to notice that Toki was following him until he actually did reach the kitchen, whereupon, as he was heading over to the hoard of sugary snacks just because they were the quickest and easiest thing to grab and eat, Toki spoke up.

"Skwisgaar, what ams you doing? Dat stuffs ain't good for de baby!"

Skwisgaar jumped at the sudden sound of Toki's voice, and before he could even spit out a retort, the brunette reached out and swiped the box of Hostess snack cakes from the Swede's hands.

"—Toki! Whats de fuck was _dat_ for?" Skwisgaar growled, half in disbelief and half in pure anger. He was fucking starving, and that asshole had just _taken away_ his food? The food that not only he needed but the little hellspawn inside of him obviously wanted as well? Aw, _hell_ no.

"You and de baby don'ts needs dis bull's shit." Toki threw the box back in the hoard, then abruptly grabbed Skwisgaar's hand and started to pull him forward. "Comes wis me, Skwisgaar, we finds Johns-Pear and he make you somesing healthies to eat."

Skwisgaar wrenched his hand away, staring at Toki incredulously. "Toki! Whats de hell, you just walks in here and takings my foods away from me and now yous wanting me to eat dat fucking dildo hippie foods shit?"

Toki furrowed his brow in confusion. "I didn't says nothing about hippie shit, Skwisgaar. Yous delusional."

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes, anger fading away into a more mild annoyance. "Whatevers, Toki. Just gives me some fucking foods already, I t'inkings I ams going to keels over and dies if I don't eat somet'ings soon."

But Toki didn't have to look far; the racket the two arguing Scandinavians were making had alerted Jean-Pierre to the presence of two of his masters in the kitchen, and out of nowhere he came slithering out from the cooking lair or wherever he resided, crooked and braced leg dragging limply behind him, drool running in a thin line down the side of his crudely sewn face (a/n: I don't know about you, but seeing that bastard just morphing out of the corner of a dark room, face all mutilated and stiched up, making those wet hissy noises he makes and dragging his dead leg along behind him, would scare the living shit out of me).

"Muh…my lords," He greeted, hissing a little at the ending 's' on lords. "Eez zere anything I can…_gleh_…ge-het for you?"

Now, Skwisgaar hadn't actually seen Jean-Pierre in a while, and though he clearly recalled the disfigured chef's somewhat startling appearance, it was still just…_unnerving_ to see it in action. Add that coupled with the fact that he'd had a vehemently uneasy stomach as of late, and bad things were bound to happen. Fortunately, the Swede was able—just barely—to swallow back the vomit as Toki spoke.

"Skwisgaar need somethings good to eat, John-Pear," He requested. "He gots a—"

"—hungries for somethings good to eat!" Skwisgaar interrupted, sending Toki an icy glare at the end of his statement that did not lessen in severity when Jean-Pierre replied "right away, my lord," and slunk away.

As soon as the undead Frenchman was gone, Skwisgaar pounced. "You stupids fucking MORON!"

"Whats de hell, man?" Toki immediately retaliated, obviously clueless to the fact that he'd almost spewed forth the biggest secret in Mordhaus, one that only the two guitarists knew of and understood.

"You can'ts be tellingks every fucking peoples we seesk dat I has a fucking _kids_ insides of me!"

"Dey's gonna finds out soons enough, so why's not tells dem anyways?"

Skwisgaar paused in mid-breath, mouth ajar, as Toki's words really sunk in.

Yes, that was true. Come hell or high water, soon anyone who looked at the Swede was going to be able to clearly see the result of Freyja's intervention, whether he wanted them to or not. But, coming from Toki's mouth, it just sounded like tattling. Such a fucking kid, wanting to blather it out to everyone within earshot just because he was excited about something he shouldn't even be excited about.

"And asides of dat, Skwisgaar, why ams you not tellin people yourselfs?" Toki pressed on, flinging his arms up in the air to express his incredulity. "Hasing a baby be ams a good thing! You should be happies!"

Something happened then to make Skwisgaar snap. Be it something in Toki's expression as he declared that last statement, or the declaration itself, he wasn't sure, but either or, the end result was instantaneous and deeply effective.

"Fucks you, Toki!" Skwisgaar spat. "I didn't even _asks_ for dis shit to be happen-inkgs to me in de first's place, so don'ts be acting like dis is a fucking _cele-bre-tations_!"

Toki narrowed his eyes, his features shifting into an expression of disgust. "Yous really ams such one fuckin bastard, Skwisgaar. You be actings like dis babys don'ts even matters, but I tells you, I tells you it DOES matters. De kids—_your_ kids—ams in-a-sense, and you treats it like it ain't _nothings_! Like is a _bad_ thing!"

"Dat's because—"

"Because whats, Skwisgaar? I's gettings real sick of you being such mean bitch all of de times, and what for no reasons too! I tells you somet'ings, Skwisgaar, and yous better listen good—dis kid ams probablies gonna be de best things dat ever happens to you." And with that, Toki pivoted and stalked out of the kitchen, muttering to himself in angry, hurt Norwegian the whole way.

Skwisgaar blinked, then flipped his hair over his shoulder and scoffed. "Whatevers. Fucking dildo don't knows whats he be talkings about. Hasing babies be ams a good t'ing, pffft."

And that was precisely what Skwisgaar had convinced himself to be the notion as, in the darkness of the kitchen—lit only by a dim red glow emanating from the far-off entrance of Jean-Pierre's cooking quarters—he rode out the last traces of anger and exasperation in a void of silence marked by heartbeats and nearly imperceptible breaths.

But as those hostile emotions faded, new ones rose in the place of the old, and Skwisgaar found himself wrapping his arms around his waist in a subconscious effort to atone for the thoughtless things he'd said earlier, suddenly feeling very alone and somewhat frightened and—even more astonishing—wanting to feel the warmth again.

"I ams…sorry," He mumbled into the darkness. "I don'ts know what has gotten into side of me latelies, but I promises I am not….." He trailed off, glancing down with a sigh. "I knows I must be soundingks like a fucking idi-otts-tick moron rights now, talkings out loud like a psycho nuts job, but…." Another sigh, this time more clipped. "_I'm sorry for the things I said earlier. I'm not angry at you and I'm not ungrateful for your existence, I'm just…..scared out of my fucking mind is all_," He whispered in Swedish, finding that using his native tongue offered a degree of intimacy with the child that his somewhat horrendously botched English did not. "_The truth is—no, I never did ask for you, nor did I realize what I was getting myself into when the goddess came to me and I accepted her offer of salvation. And, yes, having you inside me hasn't been the greatest these past few months. But…I suppose carrying you really is a good thing. From what I've been told, you're a savior. That's pretty damn impressive, don't you think?_"

Skwisgaar smiled a little after he said this, lifting his gaze to stare off into nothingness, feeling a wave of serenity overtake him in the aftermath of his apology-slash-acceptance speech. He felt lighter, as if he'd relieved himself of a conscious weight that had been dragging him down these past several weeks. Perhaps making peace with the child within him was all he'd really needed to do.

He didn't say anything more after that, just stood there and listened to the faint hustle-and-bustle of Jean-Pierre in his hideaway: the distant clanging of pots and pans, the sizzle of ingredients being poured into boiling water, the crackling of embers in the enormous hearth. The air had begun to fill with the thick perfume of basil and oregano, tomatoes, and fine wine. Skwisgaar closed his eyes and absentmindedly trailed his fingers down his stomach while he waited for his food to cook.

Several minutes later, Jean-Pierre came limping out of his lair again, bowl of steaming pasta in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, a fancy napkin draped over one arm. "Eere you are, Mashter Skwigelf," He murmured, presenting Skwisgaar with the delicacies. ".._gleh…_would Mashter like some wine with his meal zeez evening?" He inquired, leading Skwisgaar to the stone slab of a countertop and pulling out a wrought iron stool for him. "We have just receieved a shi-hipment from.._nn..nuh..No-horway,_" He continued, setting the pasta down in front of Skwisgaar and offering him the bottle. "There are several cases, ze finest wine."

Skwisgaar gazed at the wine with a wistful expression. He seemed torn; he deliberated for a moment before sighing and replying with a mournful "no thanks."

If Jean-Pierre was surprised, you wouldn't have known it; he simply uttered a "very we-hell," and retreated back into his den.

Only after Skwisgaar had taken the first bite did he realize he had nothing to drink; with a quiet curse, he let his fork clatter to the bowl and rose from his stool, the iron scraping roughly against the stone floor as he pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the fridge.

Swiping up a carton of soymilk, Skwisgaar slammed the refrigerator door shut and half-turned around before letting out a cry of fear—and then he realized who was in front of him. It was hard to miss her, seeing as she radiated with enough ethereal light to illuminate the entire corner of the kitchen.

"_I heard the dispute between you and the young Norseman earlier," _Freyja began, giving Skwisgaar's pasta an idle stir with the fork. She was casually draped over the countertop, lying on her stomach, ankles crossed in the air. Her feet were bare, just as pale and perfect as any other appendage on her otherworldly body. "_I found the words you two exchanged to be exquisitely…sad._" She looked over at Skwisgaar, her face so morose that the sight of it sent a sharp ache through his chest. "_He really does care for you, dear. More than you might imagine."_

"_You think I don't know that already?_" Skwisgaar replied, avoiding eye contact with the goddess as he sat back down at the stool. "_He's been following me around all the time ever since he found out. It's been really fucking annoying lately._" He talked to his pasta instead of Freyja, finding that making conversation with her about Toki was easier if he did not look at her.

For one reason or another, Skwisgaar always felt awkward discussing his and the Norwegian's goings-on with other people. He tried hard not to dwell on it, fearing that if he did he would come to some kind of horrific revelation involving taking his sexual orientation into question. Whenever he came close to said revelation, he would promptly go out to his favorite nighttime-active street corner—the one in the really bad part of the city that cops didn't even bother patrolling anymore—and bring home half, if not all, of its more than willing inhabitants. That would usually distract him long enough for the terrible, forbidden thoughts to coil back up into their designated tight black corners in his subconscious…..at least until they decided to resurface later, whereas the Happy Whore-Fest Cycle started up all over again, and Skwisgaar nearly found himself screaming with frustration, anxiety, and more than a little desire.

Did he have a thing for Toki?

"_You're oddly quiet this evening,_" Freyja commented, twirling a lock of her shining copper hair between her long fingers, watching the Swede with an expression of unconcealed intrigue and mild amusement. "_Whatever on this green Earth could you possibly be contemplating so wholly? What vast tonnage weighs on your mind, Skwisgaar?_"

Skwisgaar was whisked from his melodramatic reverie by the sound of Freyja's voice. "_It's nothing,_" He replied. Knee-jerk reaction.

"_The child?_" Freyja guessed, when they both knew she wasn't guessing at all. The goddess was omnipotent; she saw all and knew all. And with the vehemence Skwisgaar had been thinking about Toki, he may as well have been bellowing it out at the top of his lungs—it would have made no difference to Freyja. She was simply making it seem as if she didn't know his thoughts just to make him feel better; offer a sense of false reassurance.

It worked; Skwisgaar, grateful for the diversion, grasped at it and clutched it for dear life. "_Yes, as a matter of fact. I've been thinking a lot about the kid._" And then, a real question popped into his head. "_How exactly is it going to…..come out…when the time is right?_"

Freyja laughed heartily at that. "_You needn't fret, my son—we in the halls of Asgård are greatly looking forward to the birth of our beloved pureblood savior. I will see to it personally that the child makes it safely into this world."_

Skwisgaar nodded at that, deciding no further commentary was necessary. He picked up the fork and pushed his pasta around before taking a bite.

**- x - x - x -**

"Y'can LEAD a horse _t'water_ butcha CAN'Tmake 'im _DRIIIINNNK_…"

Pickles, clutching a half-empty bottle of vodka and swaying a bit but grinning like a fool nonetheless, had drifted from the Weichlinghammer Brutal Dethfashion Ultra Supreme Dethmodeling Runway Show and was currently wandering the halls, drunkenly belting out an old tune from his Snakes 'n' Barrels days and not having a care in the world.

That is, until he happened across Toki. A obviously very upset Toki, judging by the way he'd been storming down the hall in Pickles's general direction, fists balled up, face darkened, talking to himself in Norwegian.

" 'ey, Toki!" Pickles hollered, raising his bottle in greeting before taking a swig from it. He'd meant his greeting as a casual friendly thing, nothing major. But when he received no response from Toki, he changed his angle of approach.

" 'ey, dood, what's wrong?"

Toki's eyes flickered upward briefly, cautiously. "Nothings."

"Bullshit, dood. Y'look worser'n hell."

"I says its nothing, Pickle! So whats if I looks worse dan hells, big deals!"

Pickles sighed. "Was Skwisgaar bein' a bitch again?"

At the mention of the Swede's name, Toki couldn't contain himself any longer. He stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to face the drummer, ice blue eyes wild, teeth bared.

"Oh, oh Skwisgaar, dat big dumb dildo sluts bastard jerk asshole thinks he ams betters dan all de rest's of de world! 'Oh, looks at me, I's de fastests guitarist alifes, I gots a millions billions sluts suckings my cock all day long,' BIG DEALS! And now he hasing a baby and he actings like mean bitch all cause of—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, dood, _what_?" Pickles shook his head and held his hands up in a gesture of BACK THE FUCK UP. "Run that by me again."

Toki blinked in a moment's confusion, then gasped as he realized what he'd just said. "Oh, um, I justs….I um….I says nothings, Pickle! Yous going crazies or somethings, I ams….um…"

Pickles ignored the Norwegian's rambling. "Dood, did you just say Skwisgaar's havin' a _baby_?"

Toki gulped and said nothing. Pickles took the silence for an affirmative.

"Aw, man, no way in fuckin _hell_," He slapped a hand to his forehead. "You _did_, didn'cha?"

Figuring he was already good as dead when Skwisgaar found out of his misdeed, Toki nodded solemnly.

Luckily, Pickles was a man of logic, and therefore wasn't about to be reeled in by this one. After a brief moment of shocked silence, he burst into guffaws.

"Nice one, dood. Really had me goin there for a second." He smirked lopsidedly. "Yer pretty funny, kid, when ya put yer mind to it."

"Yeah, I ams…pretty funny guy, huh, Pickle?" Toki laughed nervously. _Except its all de truths,_ he thought, panicked.

When Pickles ambled off, waving his bottle in a goodbye gesture, Toki had to take a moment to collect himself. That was a close call. Almost too close. He knew it'd been his own idea that Skwisgaar tell the others The Secret, but actually almost having done so himself, Toki knew it would have to be done with a certain degree of eloquence that he was sure none of them possessed.

…and then he mentally slapped himself for even thinking of eloquence as a factor, knowing fully well that being blunt and to-the-point would probably be the best way to approach the situation when the time came. And that time would be soon, Toki knew. Skwisgaar had to be almost four months by now, and in another few weeks baggy shirts wouldn't do much justice to hiding The Secret from the others.

Bearing that in mind, Toki felt a little better in knowing that maybe, just maybe, neither he nor Skwisgaar would have to say anything—the Pureblood would speak for itself. Surely the other members of Dethklok were not so stupid as to—

_Who says they have to find out for themselves? _A devilish Inner Toki grinned. _Let that stupid bastard suffer—it'd only serve him right for all those times he's picked on us, insulted our guitar playing, called us names, fucking humiliated us in front of EVERYBODY…_

Toki could not help but imagine the little fantasy his more wicked side had conjured up: everyone in the rehearsal hall, staring at Skwisgaar with mixed expressions of shock and disgust and incredulity after Toki loudly and savagely spilled all about everything, finally having been pissed off enough to the point that he would commit such a heinous crime against the psuedo-brotherly-friendship he and the Swede had going on….

…and then Skwisgaar would react in a multitude of elaborate fashions, first denying everything, then screaming at Toki, then ignoring everybody else as they finally began voicing their opinions, rolling his eyes and flipping his hair with typical arrogance on the surface but underneath it all he would be self-destructing, every shred of his ego being ripped to pieces, leaving behind nothing save for a tattered veil of insecurity and shame and fear that would almost immediately begin to rise up in a festering black cloud of cataclysmic downfall for the world's fastest guitarist…

…and Skwisgaar, being the drama queen that he was, would sink into a deep depression at Toki having irrevocably destroyed his image for him, and he would most likely sulk in his room for weeks on end before finally taking matters into his own hands and, in a last ditch effort of pure desperation, possibly attempt to kill the kid and take it out of him on his own, hoping that this crime of unspeakable treachery would at least be considered metal enough for lyrical inspriation and in a sick twisted sense he would be reaccepted into the gang as an insane psychotic bastard who'd murdered his own offspring before it'd even had a chance to draw its first breath…

…and holy hell, Toki had a disturbing and grotesquely vivid imagination.

_Yes, that does sound delightful,_ Inner Toki murmured appreciatively.

"No, no, no," Toki shook his head almost violently. "Wes not gonna doos dat to Skwisgaar! Dat's…messeds up beyonds…dat's _wrong_! He's such drama bitch he ams probablies really gonna _kills_ de baby and its will be all Toki's fault!"

_Oh, come on, if he really wanted to kill the damn thing he would've done so already,_ Inner Toki rationalized. _I mean, he's already showing, and if the superficial bastard is willing to live with that, than he can suck it up and deal with the others finding out too._

…_Besides, if you were so intent on guarding his little secret, why did you tell Pickles?_

"It was am accidentals!" Toki hissed. "Pickle thinks we tellings de joke!"

_But for how long will his conviction remain so? You know as well as I do he will come to his senses and eventually confront us about it. And then what, hm? We lie for that Swedish whore again? Excuses, excuses…_

"Shuts up! SHUTS UP! _FUCKING SHUTS UP_!" Toki snarled, spinning around and slamming his fist into the stone wall. A gruesome cracking sound issued from his knuckles, and he screamed again, more in rage than pain, clutching his now lax hand and sliding to the floor in a crumpled heap.

As Inner Toki cackled maliciously and slunk back into the dark recesses of Toki's subconscious, satisfied of the impression he'd left, the Norwegian curled in on himself and quietly wept at the hopelessness of this whole situation. Skwisgaar may have been a shallow, arrogant, promiscuous asshole, but he _had_ acknowledged the presence of the comfortably dysfunctional friendship he and Toki shared and in turn had entrusted Toki with quite possibly the biggest secret of his life, something that could very easily ruin his career, his image, his whole fucking _existence_, and Toki had actually sworn to protect both Skwisgaar and his child, to help take care of him, to just….fucking…do what a goddamn friend should do.

And for the love of Odin, he had almost fucked up everything in one fell swoop of an angry tirade to a drunken drummer who'd done nothing save for say hello to him. He was a pathetic excuse for a friend for that alone, and he didn't even want to figure in his all-kinds-of-fucked-up inner self giving him all those awful suggestions, tempting him with the possibility of incomprehensibly brutal revenge for something so minor as being teased about his guitar playing….and did he really have to imagine Skwisgaar actually killing his child and taking it out of his body by himself? That alone was almost enough to induce nightmares.

Toki muttered a curse in Norwegian and sniffed, wishing he could wipe his eyes but he didn't want to let go of his broken hand just to use his good hand for a second.

Oh, motherfucker, his hand was broken. That was just fucking _peachy_. Yet another thing to add to the list. As if betrayal to perhaps his only true friend on this godforsaken planet and a nice conversation with his deeply psychologically disturbed inner self weren't enough, he was now the world's second best guitarist in the world's most famous band with a goddamn fucking broken hand. The guys were really gonna like this, especially when so much progress was finally starting to be made on the new album….

With a shaky sigh, Toki wobbled to his feet (using no hands in the process was a bit difficult but he figured he deserved it) and shuffled off to his room, intent on getting wasted beyond belief to cope with all of this shit. Fuck his hand; he'd go to the hospital later, when he actually felt like it.

**- x - x - x -**

Skwisgaar's eyes were closed, but he didn't sleep. He lay sprawled on his back on the bed, completely naked and illuminated in the rays of moonlight streaming in through the glass panes on the far wall of his bedroom. The light settled in the sharp recesses of his angular features, highlighting the subtle contours of his chest, reflecting in little shining bursts off the silver studs that pierced his nipples. His long arms were lanky, muscled in a fine, almost imperceptible way. His tall, thin stature was easily deceptive—the Swede actually possessed a good amount of strength, unlike the assumptions of most who laid eyes upon him.

Skwisgaar knew those assumptions were going to take on a whole new form soon, something radically evolved and infinitely more dangerous because of this. His point of particular concern was the still relatively small bump that curved out from between slender, jutting hips, looking distinctly out of proportion in contrast to the rest of his lean, wiry body.

He tried not to think about how he'd look in the next few months, preferring instead to focus on the texture of his rabbit-fur blanket; how soft it felt underneath his skin, each little individual hair wisping against his legs, his back, his shoulders, his arms…

Then he remembered the fight he'd had with Toki, in the kitchen, and his eyes snapped open. True, he and Toki fought practically every damn day, but this was different, much deeper than a couple of fucked-up guitar riffs or mispronunciations of English words or how much of a slut Skwisgaar's mother was. No, this fight had been out of, for lack of better word…_love_.

Toki was being very overprotective and overbearing and overly possessive of Skwisgaar just because he had a kid growing inside him, and, naturally, Skwisgaar rejected any form of help or advice (rudimentary as it may be) from the concerned Norwegian, and, also naturally, said Norwegian had been hurt because of this. Skwisgaar had overreacted, Toki had overreacted, the whole thing had been blown up into one big huge fucking dramatic tiff because of the main reason all their fights took place—Toki was annoying, and Skwisgaar was a bastard.

So, if that was the only reason, why did Skwisgaar feel so shitty about it?


	4. Holy Shit, He Ain't Kiddin'

**Chapter Four: Holy Shit, He Wasn't Kidding…**

It was Pay-Per-View night at Mordhaus. This grand event occurred once a week, and last week it'd been Pickles's choice. He'd chosen _Friday The 13__th__. _Sure, it wasn't quite as brutal as to meet Dethklok's standards, but Pickles tried to defend the movie, claiming that it was a cult classic and you 'don't fuck with th'legends, douchebags'. So they'd all watched it anyway, not really liking it but not completely hating it, either. The only one who seemed to actually enjoy it was Toki, who'd proclaimed that he was going to be Jason for next Halloween. Skwisgaar, of course, had called him dildo something-or-other, which had gotten the two Scandinavians arguing until Pickles had butted in with a tale of his own.

"Yeah, I 'memmer one Halloween back in Wiscahnsin…gad, I musta been like, what, fuckin…eh, I dunno, twelve r' sahmthin when that damn movie first came out? Anyway, me 'n a group a friends'd just gahtten back from sneakin' into th'movies and I got home, thinkin' I was home alone cuz'a, y'know, it was all dark and shit." He'd paused to take a gulp of beer, then continued, suprisingly without interruption. No one interrupted him when he was telling a story; must've had something to do with him being the oldest of the band and therefore making him the grand chief and the rest of the band the eager children listening to a good ol' yarn at storytime. "Turns out I wasn't, cuz soon as I walked in th' fuckin kitchen t'get a drink Seth jumps out from behind the couch with that fuckin hockey mask on and a fuckin rollin' pin 'n his hands. Scared th'shit outta me. Never watched any a'th'sequels cuz a'that fuckin motherdouche."

"So, uh, why'd you decide to watch it tonight then?" Nathan had arched a blacker-than-the-blackest-black-times-infinity eyebrow and shoved a fistful of extra buttery popcorn in his mouth, washing it down with the last of his own beer and crumpling the can against his head.

Pickles had shrugged. "Eh, I dunno." And that was all that was said about that.

Now, tonight, it was Murderface's turn to pick the movie. While Pickles preferred cult classics, Murderface tended to choose films that weren't so much scary as they were just plain gory. Which was perfectly fine as far as brutality and metalness was concerned, so his choices were rarely met with complaint.

While Murderface repeatedly kicked at the stomp box remote, scanning through the newest PPV selections with a scowl on his puggish face, eyes narrowed with unrelenting scrutiny at the movie titles flashing on the screen, most of which being romantic comedies (though no member of the band would admit the genre aloud, seeing as even speaking the words _romantic comedy_ was worthy of an ass-beating of epic goddamn proportions), the other members began to grow agitated.

"Augh, God, Murderface, just fuckin _pick_ somethin already," Nathan complained, cracking open his beer and taking a gulp. He glared at the massive suspended plasma screen, watching the bassist channel surf with no signs of stopping anytime soon.

"Well, excush _me_ for trying to chooze shomething halfway DEESHENT to watch!" Murderface snarled, his gaze still not deviating from the TV.

Suddenly one of the titles caught Pickles's eye. "Dood, _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_! FUCKIN' ORDER IT, MURDERFACE!"

Murderface froze, his foot levitating inches above the stomp box. He turned, very slowly, to face the puzzled drummer. "I am utterly_ appalled_ at you, Picklesh. I'm appalled becaush it sheems to me zat you sheem to have forgotten zat my OWN DAD HACKED MY MOM TO PIECESH BEFORE CUTTING HIMSHELF UP WIF A FUCKIN CHAINSHAW! HAVE YOU NO IDEA, NO _COMPREHENSHION_ OF THE KIND OF EMOTIONAL _TRAUMA_ THAT CAUSHED ME? I WASH A FUCKIN _BABY_ FOR CHRISHT SHAKESH! HAD T'GO LIVE WIF MY FUCKIN _GRANDMA AND GRANDPA_ FOR TH' REST OF MY CHILDHOOD _LIFE_! AND Y—"

"Dood, Jeezez Christ, calm th' fuck down, Murderface. Jeez, I'm sahrry, a'ight? Jest, fuckin…choose a movie, will ya?"

Murderface jerked his head back toward the screen, leviathan-esque lower lip trembling for a moment but quickly masked by his usual ferocious scowl. He grumbled under his breath for a long time, channel-surfing again before finally settling on one of those Masters Of Horror flicks. A double feature, too. _Right To Die _followed by _Pro-Life_. Two for the price of one. Even billionaires couldn't pass up a deal like that.

"Burn victim out for revenge, huh," Nathan muttered. "Sounds kinda stupid, but brutal too. Stupid and brutal…should be interesting." He went to take another swig from his beer but found the can to be empty. He simply snatched up another one from the six-pack in his lap and cracked it open, taking a gulp from that one and chasing it with some popcorn.

"Whats ams de Pro-Lives?" Toki inquired, popping a few brightly-colored hard candies in his mouth from the enormous metal bowl he cradled in his arms.

"Eh, think I mighta heard'a that one b'fore. Somethin' 'bout aliens and crazy-ass Christian fuckwads and abortion clinics…" Pickles trailed off, taking a pull from his tequila. "Gaht any licorice in that huge-ass stash a'yours, kid?"

Toki pursed his lips, childishly upset at having to share his candy, but it was with Pickles, who was perhaps the only one who was (usually) nice to him on a regular basis, so he obliged and dug around for a while before unearthing a handful of red licorice. "Here you goes, Pickle. Is all I could finds."

Skwisgaar, from the far end of the couch, rolled his eyes at the exchange. Toki never fucking shared his candy with _him_. However, he decided against comment, astoundingly enough, and instead turned his attention back to the TV, where Abby and whats-his-ass had just gotten into the car crash and now he was waking up in the hospital…

No one really offered any heartfelt commentary until the dream scene, where whats-his-ass was in the hottub and Abby, in her normal, sexy, un-charred form was currently seducing him.

"LOOK AT TH' TITSH ON THAT!" Murderface bellowed, a lewd grin spreading across his face.

"Oh, yeeeeahh…" Pickles smirked. "Them 'r sum nice ones."

"Fuck yeah, momma." Nathan conceded, raising his beer in agreement.

Toki sighed dreamily. "I wish olds Toki coulds makes out wis a beautifuls goyal like dat…."

"Ja, dems is a pretty hot ladys I'd likes to take a cracks at." Skwisgaar added, his idle fingering on the neck of his X-plorer picking up speed.

Everyone's sentiments were immediately forgotten, however, as Abby's flesh began to disintegrate and melt away in a way that strangely resembled the burning end of a cigarette, bright red and smoldering and spreading in firey splotches, leaving behind sticky, bloody muscle and charred networks of gristle rippling over her body. Her rather impressive bosoms had withered away to singed pectoral muscles, and she was otherwise unrecognizable save for the two yellowed, bulging eyes staring into the horrified eyes of her husband, filled with rage and murderous intent.

"Augh, her tits melted!" Nathan's eyes widened. "Brutal!"

Toki cringed and squeezed his eyes shut. "….I don't thinks old Toki wants to makes out wis dat goyal anymore," he mumbled.

It got better after that, from the husband waking from his 'dream' and explaining that he had a burned dick to his lawyer over the phone, to Abby extracting her revenge on said lawyer later on in the movie, whereupon she proceeded not only to drag her mangled, burned carcass across the slick tiled hospital floor in much the same fashion as a barely-constituted Hellraiser in the attic, leaving a blood trail in her wake, but also to use some kind of supernatural revenge-extracting powers to set the lawyer on fire and subsequently kill him most dead.

But the best part of the movie by far, in everyone's opinion, was the end where the desperate and grief-stricken husband decides to skin and dismember the woman he'd been having an affair with before Abby's accident by way of a dentist's anesthetic and some kind of little-ass electric carving knife-esque implement. And the brutal and bittersweet ending, where, despite the husband's most valiant efforts to get to the hospital on time and deliver to his wife the skin she desperately needs, Abby dies but is able to rest peacefully in knowing that all of her chosen victims are most revenge-sought-upon dead and her husband ended up complying to her demands anyway by obtaining skin for her would-be lifesaving transplant.

"Well, that movie was pretty fucked up." Pickles cheerfully finished off the last of his third tequila and reached for a fourth somewhere down by his feet.

"Gave me a coupla song ideas," Nathan grumbled.

"'M not s'prised." Pickles replied.

Skwisgaar craned his neck to sneak a peek at Toki, who had brought his knees up to his chest, clutching the candy bowl with stiff fingers (it turned out he hadn't actually broken his hand but instead only had a couple of fissures in two different knuckles; he'd been given a hand brace and some painkillers and been told not to take a swing at a stone wall anymore; nonetheless, Nathan was still not pleased and thus resorted to glaring at and even vocally threatening the rhythm guitarist whenever he fucked up at practice).

"Huh huh, I thinks little Tokis ams going to haves de nightmares tonights," He smirked, waiting for the Norwegian's rebuttal.

"Am nots!" Toki growled, though he wasn't so sure himself. Pickles was right; that movie had been fucked up.

Though, not as fucked up as _Pro-Life_ would turn out to be, because at least _Right To Die_ pretty much made sense.

Between the 15-year-old girl impregnated with the rapidly-growing spawn of an underground-dwelling demon/alien and her simian-esque religious zealot of a father and three reluctant brothers launching a terrorist attack on the abortion clinic—inexplicably located on a private plot of government-owned land in the wilderness, mind—where she was being 'held captive' (not to mention using the baby-sucker-outter to brutally castrate the abortion doctor himself while giving him a lecture on how what he was enduring right now was what every young girl who came to him had to go through and that he was only getting what he deserved) AND the father of the demon-alien spawn actually EMERGING FORTH FROM UNDERGROUND THROUGH THE FLOOR OF THE CLINIC to seek out his offspring and subsequently wreak havoc on the few remaining doctors and patients in the clinic, this movie was turning out to be a real WTF-were-these-fuckers-smoking-when-they-thought-of-this-shit-I-think-I-want-some-of-that flick.

Needless to say, Skwisgaar couldn't help but feel personally affected. Despite all of Freyja's blathering about his child being 'pure as the driven snow' and being a 'savior to all the other leagues of tarnished souls in this world', he still couldn't help but imagine a little demon-alien of his own writhing and growing inside of his body. The thought was extremely unnerving, and more than once he found himself pressing a hand to his stomach in a vain atempt to ascertain whether or not his kid was sporting fangs/claws/spikes/a tail/etc., or anything else that would affiliate it with being a demon/alien of sorts. It was pretty much impossible to tell right now, so he comforted himself with the knowledge that if his child WAS a fucking demon/alien spawn he would've known by now.

"I'da just killed the little fucker before it had a chance to grow," Nathan commented. "I mean…yeah, she, she KNEW the kid was gonna be fucked up…or at least she should have, cause, uh….I mean, she did get raped by a fucking demon, so…yeah." And then his eyes widened. He immediately and violently shoved a hand into his pocket, whipped out his Handy Dandy Voice Recorder ™, and bellowed "RAPED BY A DEEEMMOONN!" into the little device.

"That'sh a good shong title," Murderface offered.

"I know, that's why I, uh, just put it into my recorder." Nathan replied with a you're-such-a-dickbrain look before shoving the thing back into his pocket.

"Man, that part where th'dood got his fuckin balls sucked off by that….fuckin, hose thing…gad, brutal." Pickles shook his head and lit up a doobie. That seemed to just materialize out of nowhere, further adding evidence to the theory that Pickles had a trans-dimensional void SOMEWHERE on his person that could manifest drugs and/or alcohol at any given time, any given place. Seemed like a pretty cool thing to have, a void like that. Lucky bastard.

"And de way dat goyal shooted her baby at de end, dat was pretty metal." Toki added, nonchalantly popping a few gumballs in his mouth.

Skwisgaar couldn't help but give him an odd look. He'd never have thought Toki to be one for infanticide, especially after the huge fucking deal he'd made out of protecting Skwisgaar's little spawn…but then again, Toki was the band member most adept at surprising people. He decided not to dwell on it, instead leaning back and plucking out a couple random scales on his X-plorer.

Murderface heaved a shigh, pushing himself to his feet. "Yeahp, well, I'm headin out t'zhe track. Shee you fuckersh later." And with that, he left. No one questioned or followed him. They weren't supposed to show interest in each other's shenanigans.

Murderface's departure seemed to signal the cue for the others to get up and leave, too. So, one by one, they all got up and left to go on about their own personal business. Personal business probably being to get shitfaced somewhere, or in Nathan's case, work on some new lyrics. Only Toki and Skwisgaar were left on the couch, the only sound being the quiet plinging of Skwisgaar's fingers against the steel strings of his guitar and the occasional rustling of cellophane wrappers as Toki plunged his hand into the giant candy bowl.

Until Toki decided to scoot closer to Skwisgaar, who glanced over with a questioning look.

"_What did you think of the movie?_" Toki asked, feeling comfortable with speaking Norwegian now that the Americans were gone. He didn't like the looks they gave him or Skwisgaar when they spoke in their native languages. The look that mostly consisted of _fuckin foreigners, you're in America, speak English for fuck's sake_. Well, actually, the looks didn't really have to say anything because they usually said it out loud anyway.

"_Which one? We watched two movies, dildo._" Skwisgaar rolled his eyes, staring straight ahead at the TV, where a commercial for male enhancement had just come on. Male enhancement, bah. As far as the Swede was concerned, that was dildos. Fuck that shit, put it down the fuckin toilet, FLUSH.

Toki shoved Skwisgaar, catching him off-guard. "_The one with the baby._"

Skwisgaar's fingers clenched reflexively around the neck of his X-plorer, and he instinctively lied. Well, sort-of lied. "_I didn't think much of it. Stupid shit, really. How about you? Were you scared?_" He offered the younger man a challenging smile in response to his question.

"_Hell no!_" Toki sneered, throwing a half-eaten piece of chocolate across the room for emphasis.

Skwisgaar smirked and turned his attention back to the TV. "_Liar._"

Toki fumed silently for a moment before replying with, "_Well, so are you._"

Skwisgaar was taken-aback. "_What?_"

"_Come on, don't tell me you weren't even a LITTLE scared. I mean, hell,_" Toki persisted, gesturing vaguely to the Swede's stomach. "_you've got a kid of your own; don't tell me you're not going to at least have one nightmare about having a demon burst out of you in the middle of the night_."

Skwisgaar shook his head, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "_I guess so._"

Toki smiled back. "_I know I would. I mean…" _He trailed off, unable to process his thoughts into a coherent sentence. His smile faded, and his brunette brow knit together. He turned away, face reddening from embarrassment in a very un-metal way.

Skwisgaar regarded the Norwegian for a moment. "_If you were in my situation?_"

Toki nodded, grateful that the Swede had said that for him. He wasn't sure the reason for his sudden chagrin; after all, he'd had no previous qualms about discussing Skwisgaar's baby with him. Perhaps it was because now he was actually trying to put himself in the Swede's shoes, and in doing so finally realized the sheer VASTNESS of the situation and all the fretters that were inexorably tied to it. After all, being a dude for twenty-odd years and then suddenly finding yourself knocked up with some holy Norse-god baby wasn't exactly something that could easily roll off one's shoulders.

And with that thought, Toki suddenly found himself almost…_admiring_ Skwisgaar. Not admire like omg-he's-so-good-at-guitar admire, or omg-no-way-he-slept-with-_all_-those-chicks-last-night admire, or omg-his-hair-is-so-goddamn-pretty admire. No, those were all petty envious little things to admire the Swede for. This was something _real_, like earth-shattering _real_. Something noble. Toki knew Skwisgaar was not by nature a noble man, so for him to have agreed to something like this was truly something worthy of praise. _Way to go, you selfish, arrogant sonofabitch. Ya' done good. _

Toki couldn't help but smile at that last thought. It was too true.

"_What are you smiling at? You look like an idiot, you know._" Skwisgaar glanced over at the Norwegian, raising a blond brow at the expression on his face.

Toki turned and let his eyes meet Skwisgaar's. They held each other's gaze for a moment before Toki broke away, a smirk on his face. "_Oh, nothing._" He fished a grape lollipop out of his candy bowl and slipped the plastic wrapper off in a crinkling of cellophane before sticking it in his mouth, casually resuming his TV watching.

Skwisgaar blinked, then also turned his attention back to the fucking huge plasma screen, figuring no words needed to be said after that.

**- x - x - x -**

"'Ey, doods," Pickles spoke up a couple of weeks later, eyeing Skwisgaar as he passed through on his way to the kitchen. "Is it jest me, 'r is ol' Skwissy lookin' a little, eh…weerd?"

"You mean lookin' a little FAT, zhat ish," Murderface grinned evilly, looking up from the newest issue of _Antiques Road Collection: Restored Civil War Edition_. Lots of black and white photos and blue wool fabric. The bassist was currenly very interested in the two-page spread of recovered field doctors' tools and equipment for sale, some of which still had original bloodstains preserved for antiquity purposes.

Nathan raised an eyebrow, glancing over at his two bandmates. "Uh, yeah. I've, uh, kinda noticed that too. Funny, he's usually a fuckin' skinny bitch, ain't he?"

"Yeah. I mean, ya don't _have_ ta take it too seer'ously. Jest an observation, y'know." Pickles shrugged and took a gulp from his beer can.

"Perhapsh it'sh a parashite," Murderface offered. "If you recall, I my_shelf_ wash reshently infected wif zhe Amazhonian—"

"Yeah, Murderface, yeah, we know." Pickles made a disgusted face. "Fuckin' wiener fish. Sick, dood."

"Don't be_little_ me, Picklesh!" Murderface scowled. "You have no idea what it'sh _like_, playing hosht to a bunch of parashitic fish, feeling zhem grow inshide you." He paused for effect. "In_shide_ you, gentlemen."

"Dude, Murderface." Nathan stared at the bassist. "You're fuckin' weird."

Murderface grumbled and settled back into the couch, bringing his magazine up to hide his face.

"Well, _maaaay_be we should ask 'im then?" Pickles ventured, raising his di-pierced eyebrows and gesturing vaguely to the direction of the kitchen.

"Huh. Good idea." Nathan replied.

They found Skwisgaar in the kitchen, casually snacking on some cold leftover pizza and looking through what appeared to be a notebook filled with his own special dialect of guitar tabulature that nobody else could have a hope of deciphering. His X-plorer sat in his lap, and his hands would drift to it every so often, fingers testing out some new riffs and scales, apparently for one of their newer songs. His long blond hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail for the occasion, and his brow was furrowed with concentration as he bent over his notes and guitar.

Pickles spoke first. "Eeeyy, Skwisgaar!" He greeted cheerfully, cracking open a beer and taking a gulp. "Whatchya doin' there?"

Skwisgaar gave a start at the sudden sound of the drummer's loud Yooper holler breaking the otherwise silent void of the unoccupied kitchen. His fingers tightened reflexively on the neck of his Gibson, and he lifted his gaze to see Pickles, Nathan, and Murderface standing around him, waiting expectantly. He swallowed. "Just, ah…workings on some new guitar sounds for dis tracks."

"And how's dat goin' for ya?"

"Is fine. Needs a littles work here ands dere."

"Oh, well, dat's good."

"Ja."

An awkward silence issued itself then – it seemed that Pickles had run out of ideas as far as light icebreaking small talk went. Skwisgaar watched his three bandmates shift uncomfortably, clearing throats, scratching balls, etcetera, for about twenty-eight straight seconds before said anything. "Does yous…has somet'ings you wants to says to me?"

"Uh, yeah," Nathan blurted out, then immediately made a face at his unthinking bluntness. Pickles rolled his eyes. Murderface sighed wetly, the sound being remarkably close to a clogged garbage disposal.

"Shkwishgaar," he began. "wif all due reshpect…ah, jeezy, how do I put zthish…"

"We wanted to know if you have a parasite." Nathan finished.

Skwisgaar fixed the vocalist with a dull look. "Paraskites?"

"Yeeah, like dat weiner fish 'er whatever," Pickles smirked.

"I believe zhe technical term is Candiru fish, Picklesh," Murderface added helpfully.

"Whatever." Pickles repeated, taking another swig of beer and turning back to Skwisgaar with a sudden grin on his face. "So, d'ya heeyave one 'er naht?"

_Oh shit,_ Skwisgaar thought. He swallowed the last bite of pizza he'd been chewing and waved a hand dissmissively. "I has no idea whats any of yous are talkings about."

"Augh, come on, man!" Nathan abruptly burst out, eyes widening. "It's so obvious!"

Skwisgaar's jaw twitched, but he regained his composure quickly enough to respond with practiced indifference: "Hows do you mean?"

"Dood!" Pickles laughed. "I ain't never seen a case'a beer gut come on so feeyast—"

"FUCKS YOU PICKLE," Skwisgaar replied, slamming his notebook shut and rising to his feet.


	5. Gritty Reboot

**Chapter Five: Gritty Reboot **

_**Metalocalypse, Dethklok, etc.**_** © Small ****& Blacha.**

**Okay. First of all, I apologize for the excruciating two-year hiatus. But it was a necessary evil, for in the time I wasn't spending lamenting over the sheer fucked-uppedness of this story, I was Wiki-studying some crucial aspects of Norse mythology. Such as the fact that Freyja is actually a **_**Vanir**_** goddess, not one of the **_**Æsir**_** (as a reviewer helpfully pointed out some time ago). But anyhoo. **

**I tried to thicken the plot some, as the bathtub scene might indicate. Hopefully all this will make up for my negligence. D: And thank you for all your positive reviews! They're what got me working on this beast again. **

Two and a half weeks later was particularly hot and miserable and unproductive. Everyone was in a shitty mood, and the fact that Nathan insisted that they all stay for an extra-long practice that afternoon was less than desired.

"FUCK!" Nathan snarled, pivoting to glare hellishly at his four overworked bandmates. His long dark hair fell over his face and shoulders like a black curtain, plunging the rest of his broad face into dramatic shadows that made him look even scarier. "What the fuck's _wrong_ with you assholes? You sound like shit, every one of you fuckers. Get it together, or else."

"Er'else _what_? We're gahnna _die_?" Pickles snapped. "Fer Chrissakes, Nat'en, it's fuckin five hunnerd _d'grees_ in this fuckin shithole! Ya _can't_ expect us t'pr'form like this!"

"Yeah! It'sh kinda _hard_ to play bassh when your handsh are all _shweaty_!" Murderface also began bitching, holding up his sweating fingers for evidence.

"Pfft! Oh boo-hoos, poors Myrdolface gots sweaties hands, he can'ts play bass, de dynamic of de bands ams gone. Poof!" mocked Skwisgaar, who at this point was almost at his wit's end from the acidic combination of extreme heat and horrendously fluctuating whore moans. I mean, hormones.

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! BASSH IS ZHE FOUNDASHUN OF ZHE _BAND!_" Murderface roared.

"Ja, dat's real likelies."

"YOU MO—"

"_**ENOUGH!**_**" **Nathan bellowed.

Silence. Good. "Thank you. Now. Murderface, Skwisgaar. You can fucking kill each other on your own time. Pickles, I know how goddamn hot it is in here, and your bitching is just making it worse." He paused, gave everyone the once-over, and continued. "Now listen up, assholes. We've got work to do, and whining about it like a bunch of little crybaby pussies ain't gonna get it done any faster. You all heard Ofdensen, the more we just sit on our asses and _not_ finish this album, the more money we lose. So. Let's finish this fucking album. READY?"

With an immense sigh, Pickles raised his drumsticks, counted off, and led the rest of the band into Nathan's newest creation, "Fuck Me Like A Demon". Apparently this album was to come with a sizeable helping of sexual inneundos on top of the customary darkness and brutality.

Speaking of brutality, Pickles was right. It _was_ awfully hot in the rehearsal hall. Like fuckin flesh-melting hot (Skwisgaar made a mental note to address this with Nathan later – melted flesh, _nice_). And none of them had had a drink since practice began almost three hours ago, Skwisgaar included. And he was starting to feel it now in ways he hadn't before. A dizzying rush of blood to his head left him reeling, and his sweating fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of his Gibson as he attempted to steady himself. He stepped closer to the large Krank amp and perched on the end of it, closing his eyes for a minute. His fingers twitched spasmodically across the strings – a reaction to stress ingrained within for several years. Voices crescendoed in anger all around him. Loud goddamn fuck.

" – FAT FUCK WHO CAN' EVEN –"

" – SHCREW YOU ASSHOLE –"

" – **SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GET – "**

Dear sweet _Lord_.

Toki's voice. Long hair tickling his face. "Skwisgaar, gets up!"

The world gave a lurch, and the guitar god fell into blackness.

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

"He'll be all right," Nathan rumbled. "'s just the heat."

"Yeh sure?" Pickles raised an eyebrow. "He ain't been lookin' too good lately."

"Who caresh," Murderface grumbled. "He'sh in hiszh bed, he'sh got plenty of beer in zhat mini-fridge if he wakesh up and getszh zhirshty." He belched expansively and scratched his chest. "I'm schtarvin'. Let'sh go get shum fuckin' food!"

And so, after excited mutters of agreement, the three jackoffs left Skwisgaar to rot on his disheveled fur-lined bed to gallivant into the kitchen for their after-lunch pre-dinner snacktime of crab dip, cinnamon buns, fancy cheeses, champagne, beer, booze, beer, vodka, burgers, bacon, chips, beer, booze, and more beer. And pot.

**( 0 ) - ( ~0~ ) – ( 0 )**

_The mythical realm of Fólkvangr smelled of metallic victory. Fallen warriors – those who had been slain on the battlefield but didn't get into Valhalla because Odin had already gathered his half of souls that day – gathered round, some still dazed and in awe, others already adjusted to their new ethereal surroundings and ready to feast and battle some more. The assorted slain Vikings watched as the Valkyries thundered in on their majestic steeds, fresh from battle. Their metal armour shone radiantly, reflecting brilliant sunbursts of heavenly light as they descended to the ground with the collective patter of horse hooves hitting soft earth. _

_Skuld, the noble leader of the cavalry, lowered her shield and removed her helmet in one swift movement, flicking her long auburn hair free of its bindings. She raised her chin and cast her gaze upon the nearest fallen warrior. "Tell my Lady that the daughters of royalty have arrived bearing fresh casualties."_

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

"All right," Nathan conceded, leaning forward and slamming his beer onto the sawblade-shaped coffee table with enough force to rouse his bandmates from their drunken stupors. "Enough's fuckin enough. Does _anybody _know what the hell's goin' on with Skwisgaar?"

"Dood," said Pickles.

"What."

"No idea."

"Pickles," said Nathan, "now is really not the time to fuck with me. I mean it. I just beat my goddamn writer's block and every fuckin time we try to rehearse, that asshole ends up pukin' or passin' out –"

"Scho inconshiderate," Murderface lamented from the other end of the couch, upending his fifth of Jack Daniel's and plunging his Ka-Bar into the already mutilated cushion.

Nathan grumbled and looked up, green eyes searching, targeting. "Toki. You spend the most time with Skwisgaar, you oughta know somethin'."

Toki's heart skipped a beat, and he clutched his plastic red cup of vodka, fingers sweating. "Ah. Nuh. Nate'ns, I don't's knows whats yous ams im. Implay, uhm, impluh –"

"Dood, jest ferget it, th'kid don't know nothin'." Pickles sighed congestedly, leaning over the table and pinching the last bit of his freshly rolled blunt closed. Perhaps if he weren't so torched the drummer might've recalled his brief encounter with the rhythm guitarist a few weeks ago. You remember. The night Toki broke his hand punching the shit out of that stone wall…

_Pickles ignored the Norwegian's rambling. "Dood, did you just say Skwisgaar's havin' a _baby_?"_

_Toki gulped and said nothing. Pickles took the silence for an affirmative. _

"_Aw, man, no way in fuckin hell," He slapped a hand to his forehead. "You _did_, didn'cha?"_

"Nyehh," Pickles shrugged the thought off and brought the blunt to his lips, lighting the end and inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes in deep satisfaction before re-opening them and holding the blunt out as an offering. "Doods. C'mahn, this is sahm good shit…" he croaked. Murderface looked over and took the weed, sticking the blunt between his gap and taking a sharp hit. Phlegm sprayed everywhere as he coughed.

Nathan took a long gulp from his beer can and growled some more. He was thinking. "All right, look. I uh…jeez. I know we're not supposed to show interest or care in any bandmate's personal lives but uh. Y'know, this kinda shit's fuckin up our rehearsals." He took another swig and licked his lips. "It'll start fuckin with the whole band dynamic if Skwisgaar doesn't get his shit together. Like, now."

"Well, we can't be _too_ hard on zhe kid," Murderface proclaimed, passing the blunt back to Pickles. "I mean, he ish a prisshy, shtuck-up bitch, but he'sh zhe lead guitarisht. We, uh, _do_ kinda need him. For zhe _record_." He sniffed. "Fuckin asshole'll probably get all pisshy and shtorm off ash schoon ash anybody tellszh him he'sh a fuck-up."

"He nots a fucks-up!" Toki shouted, icy eyes narrowing. He pitched forward, vodka sloshing, and stumbled his way over to the bassist with every intention of socking him right in the crap lousy face, when Nathan suddenly jumped up and threw him back onto the couch cushions. "DAMMIT TOKI I KNOW YOU KNOW SOMETHING NOW TELL ME."

Toki was screaming in Norwegian, thrashing uselessly in Nathan's beefy arms. Murderface was gargling with excitement, and a steady keening whine was coming from Pickles' throat. It was quite annoying, actually, but he had weed and was in a generous mood and nobody wanted to pass up free weed. "I NOT TELLS YOU, NATE'NS! I'S AMS SWORNS TO SECRECITIES!"

"Oh you'll fuckin tell me," Nathan declared, gripping Toki's arms tighter, eliciting a warbling cry of pain and rage from the young guitarist. "This shit ain't funny, Toki. Somethin's wrong with Skwisgaar and if he doesn't get it together soon this fuckin album'll never be finished and we'll LOSE ALL OUR FUCKIN MONEY AND IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT, TOKI? HUH? YOU BETTER START FUCKIN TALKING."

Toki flailed some more before finally rearing back and delivering a swift reverse-headbutt right into Nathan's nose with a final cry of "FUCKS YOU NATE'NS!" before pivoting and hauling some major ass out of the entertainment room. Good thing Nathan wasn't exactly in his prime anymore, or else Dethklok would've quickly lost one second-fastest-guitarist-in-the-world to a heinous and bloody death.

"Mmmmmmmraugh," Nathan grumbled, wincing as he pushed his broken nose back into place. He snorted and spat a red loogie onto the carpet. "Fuck. Haven't had to do that since high school football."

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

Skwisgaar's private stone-walled bathroom was filled with steam that rose in thick plumes from the surface of the overflowing marble bathtub. On the sink counter, a stick of vanilla incense burned itself to death on a ceramic plate, the light fragrance mingling with the bitter odor of cigarette smoke. The Swede tipped his head back and slowly slipped underwater, careful to keep his cigarette-wielding fingers up on the bathtub ledge. Upon resurfacing, he slicked his dripping blond hair back and took a deep drag off his cigarette, closing his eyes and exhaling the smoke in a steady stream.

"Dildos," he muttered, taking another drag and tapping the ash onto the edge of the tub. "Alls of dem."

He'd woken up about an hour ago in his bed, disoriented and thirsty as hell but otherwise fine. He'd groaned and uttered a heartfelt curse in Swedish before promptly RIPPING his shirt off and grabbing a bottle of imported beer from his mini-fridge. Let the gods of Vanir rain down their wrath. He was too fucking thirsty to care. One beer wouldn't hurt the kid.

Skwisgaar pined for another beer as he sat in his bathtub, soaking and smoking. He wanted to go out and drink himself unconscious with the guys again. He wanted to smoke dope and snort coke and shoot speed. He wanted to be able to fit in his normal skintight tank tops instead of having to wear baggy sweaters or loose T-shirts during rehearsals - for the love of _Odin_, he would never wear a sweatshirt to practice ever again. With the weather acting up as it was, he'd probably end up breaking down and just start cutting the sleeves off his looser shirts, even though he'd never done this before as he secretly viewed the practice haphazard and tacky. He was a fucking crajillazillionaire, for Thor's sake. If he _wanted_ a _tank top_, he would _go out_ and _buy_ one. He wouldn't resort to desecrating his other shirts instead. Pickles.

He took another deep drag off his cigarette, looked down, and scowled. Like he would fucking go out in public looking like this. He'd have to bribe Toki into buying him a new set of tank tops, then. Or he could just order new clothes online, but he admittedly wasn't very familiar with the concept – Nathan and Murderface were the ones who usually did that sort of thing. It didn't seem like rocket science, though. He'd wait until Nathan went on his nightly Dimmu Burger run and then jack his laptop and rack up some credit card bills up in this bitch.

"Dat ams soundin' likes a plans to me!" Skwisgaar proclaimed, finishing his cigarette and stubbing it out with an elegant flourish on the rim of the tub. Nobody disagreed with him, so he smirked and ran both hands through his slicked-back hair in luxurious satisfaction, wallowing in the throes of impending triumph. And then his little gutspawn kicked and ruined the happy moment. He dropped the smile, lip curling in unmitigated revulsion. "Augh, whats de hells ams – "

"_It is to be expected, Skwisgaar_."

**FFFFFFFFFFFF- !**

Skwisgaar flailed and bellowed like he was already giving birth. Water sloshed _every_where, spilling all over the floor, splashing up in his face and eyes and mouth. He coughed and hacked and clawed soaking blond tendrils out of his face. Eyes streaming, he blinked repeatedly and looked up to greet the source of his pants-shitting terror. "_What are you doing here?_"

Freyja smirked from her position perched on the edge of the tub. "_Did I startle you?_"

"_No shit,_" Skwisgaar muttered, self-consciously smoothing his hair down. The Norse goddess watched him with sly interest, her lips curving into a plump smile. Skwisgaar noticed this and cocked a slim blond eyebrow, blue eyes glinting devilishly. "_Enjoying yourself?_"

"_Immensely,_" Freyja purred, the omnipresent ethereal glow surrounding her body brightening in a subtle surge. She licked her lips and lowered herself into the water, her movements as seamlessly fluid as the liquid itself. Skwisgaar smiled murkily and settled into a more comfortable position, a low-pitched purr rumbling from his chest and rising from his throat to end in a mumbled, lust-fueled Swedish obscenity.

That was when she grabbed his cock and _squeezed_.

"AUUUUUUGH!" Skwisgaar screamed, thrashing violently, attempting to push Freyja off. His efforts only made her grip tighter, and she threw back her head and cackled maliciously, the sound echoing and reverberating off the stone walls in a thousand eerie tones, each more horrible than the last. Her smile widened scarily, eyes flaming bright and evil. "_Little pet growing in the belly of a Swedish whore, what a shame, what a bane!"_

"GETS OFF ME!" He struggled uselessly, eyes watering as his cock was squeezed tighter and _tighter _between this heinous bitch's icy fingers. He clenched his teeth and grabbed at her hand, only to find his wrists caught and pinned to either side of the tub by some malignant invisible force. "_Dammit!"_

"_Do not fret, sweet thing_," Not-Freyja mocked, her smile sweet as syrup and twice as poisonous. "_Sweet as the first fallen dew of spring._" She loosened her grip on his dick but kept her fingers wrapped round it tight, and her other hand snaked a slow, agonizing trail up his thigh to rest low on his abdomen. She looked up and giggled bashfully. "_Sorry, prose ain't really my thing – that's Bragi's department._"

Skwisgaar watched, transfixed with morbid fascination, as Not-Freyja lightly pressed a perfect fingernail against the taut flesh of his abdomen, tracing a feathery, teasing pattern before suddenly digging in with a vicious ferocity, making him arch his back and emit a strangled groan. A single bead of blood welled up and carved a crimson tear down the slight swell of his belly. A drop of red bloomed in the murky water. Not-Freyja chuckled and bent low, and Skwisgaar felt the icy-hot tip of her tongue licking the scratch clean. When she resurfaced, her lips were slicked with vermilion. "_Mmmmmm_. _Delectable._"

A shudder ripped through Skwisgaar, and a throaty growl slid through his teeth. "_Do it again,_" he murmured low, dark, low. Not-Freyja was only too happy to oblige, raking her nails with deliberate slowness across his belly with a breathy croon of arousal. Her eyes glittered maliciously when she looked up at him, and her lips stretched into a wide, wet leer. "_Baby, delicious young flesh._" A high-pitched giggle. Skwisgaar squirmed uncomfortably. Not-Freyja grinned. "_I wonder what it wou-"_

_FWOOM-_**POW**_**!**_ The door exploded open, smashing into the wall from the force of a heavy booted foot kicking it open. Not-Freyja hissed a Swedish curse and vanished, leaving Skwisgaar alone and bleeding in the tepid bathwater. Toki stood in the doorway, foot lowered, teeth bared, chest heaving with exertion, yet wild-eyed from adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Ams yous all rights?" He asked, strangely calm despite his physical appearance.

The Swede took a moment to assess the situation. His heart pounded in the aftermath. A shaky hand reached down to wipe the blood off of his stomach, and his fingers came away smeared with red. He looked up at Toki. "Ja," he croaked. "I's ams just _dandies_."

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

"I'm jusht _schaying_, is all," Murderface declared, crossing his arms and settling back into his chair.

Ofdensen peered at the bassist over the rim of his glasses. "You're saying that we should, ah, _parole_ Eric von Weichlinghammer and _re-hire_ him as, how did you put it – "

"Band health manager," Pickles interjected helpfully, taking a slurp from his beer can and smirking at the manager.

"Band health _supervisor_," Nathan corrected with a low grumble.

"Oh, thanks, Nate'n."

"Anytime."

"No, no, no!" Murderface cut in, agitation mounting. "Band _FITNESSZH_ MANAGER. Zhink about it, guysh - he kept all thoszhe faszhion modelzh nizhe and shkinny, I'm shure he could whip _uszh_ into zshape!"

"Yanno, Murderface is right," Pickles added. "If dere's one thing dat guy knows, it's helpin' fatasses like us lose weight." The beer can was crumpled and tossed, and another one was opened in rapid succession. "He's our guy."

"Fuck yeah, get him on the phone!" Nathan demanded, pointing a manly and black-polished finger in Ofdensen's face.

Charles glanced down at the stack of papers in his hands, then looked back up and surveyed his boys with an exasperated sigh. His silence was met with three pairs of green eyes (of varying shades) glaring back at him. "Boys. Do any of you remember the last time you saw von Weichlinghammer? Remember what he was doing? Remember how utterly _horrified_ you all we - "

"HEY ASSZHOLE, CUT ZHE CRAP AND GET HIZH ASSH ON ZHE _PHONE_!" Murderface roared, stabbing his 17-inch Bowie (the one he'd gotten autographed by Ted Nugent on that safari back in '02) in the center of the conference table, glaring foaming Cro-Magnan daggers at the placid manager. This was serious business.

"Yeah, I mean, Jeezez Christ dood, _why_ d'ya always gotta point out the _downsides_ t'everything?"

"Yeah, Ofdensen, why d'you gotta be such a wet blanket all the time, I mean, yeah. Dick."

"Nice metaphor there, Nate."

"Mmrugh."

Ofdensen silently brought a hand up to his forehead and massaged his temples, deciding to promptly not give a fuck anymore at this point. "Okay, look. I will – William, please sheath your blade. Thank you – I will get in touch with von Weichlinghammer and do my best to see that his sentence be temporarily-"

"Thankszh, zshank you," Murderface interrupted, settling down now that his demands were being met.

"I think this'll be a good career move on our part." Pickles raised his can in a toast nobody returned before slamming back the rest of his beer and moving onto the fresh bottle of _vin_ stashed under his chair.

"Yeah, Lord knows Skwisgaar could sure use some exercise," Nathan muttered.

Ofdensen raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Nathan, I don't think poking _fun_ at anybody is going to help matters. Wait. You said Skwisgaar?"

"Yeah, he's all fat and stuff now."

"It just ain't _healthy_, yanno," said Pickles, tossing back six Xanax with a Captain Morgan chaser.

"Ah. I see." Ofdensen wisely chose not to delve too deeply into the issue, instead gathering up his papers and bidding everyone a "good day" before departing.

Murderface threw his knife across the room with a content sigh. "Weeell boyszh, I do believe it'sh time for shecond dinner."

"CINNAMON BUNS!"

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

"_Ahhh!_ Comes ons, _nnguhh_ gods damn comes _on_ OH _HERREJÄVLAR KUKSUGARE! –_"

Toki poked his head in the doorway just in time for a heaping pile of black denim to hit him smack in the face. He warbled indignantly and pulled the offending garment off his head. "Augh, whats de hells, man?"

"My gods-damneds pants amn'ts fittings no more!" Skwisgaar roared, flinging his arms wide in frustration, giving the young Norwegian a nice full-frontal view of glorious, uncut Swedish cock. Toki wondered when the Swede had gotten that piercing. "Dis ams an OUTRAGE!"

"Well Skwisgaar, I doesn't think -"

"DON'TS 'WELLS SKWISGAAR' ME!"

Toki rolled his eyes, dropping the jeans on the floor and stepping the rest of the way into the room. "Whys you gots to be such mean bitch, huh Skwisgaar?"

"_BECAUSE MY PANTS AMN'T FITTINGS ANYSMORE!_" Skwisgaar threw himself on his bed and let loose a wail of angered anguish. Toki watched the scene unfold with something akin to pitable disgust. Honestly, you'd think the stupid sonuvabitch didn't own a bitchin' ass pair of sweats for days like these. Oh that's right, he didn't. Looks like Toki would have to take matters into his own hands then.

The simple bronze plaque mounted on the door was innocent enough-looking: _Charles F. Ofdensen, C.F.O._ And yet Toki still hesitated before raising a fist and giving a couple tentative knocks, a luxury he'd never before bestowed upon his fellow bandmates. But there was something admittedly formidable about the austere band manager, a steely iciness in his eyes that Toki was sure _everyone_ in Dethklok had duly noted by now. He didn't like it, but Ofdensen was the only person he could trust with this. He had to try.

The door slid open a few knocks later, and Ofdensen raised an eyebrow at the stricken expression on the rhythm guitarist's face. "Toki. What are you doing here." Just like that, not even a question mark-type question. "Is something wrong? The diabetes acting up again?"

Toki twiddled his fingers and swallowed. "Is kinds of a personal issues."

Ofdensen took this into consideration and opened the door all the way. "Perhaps you should come inside."

Ohhh goody. Toki followed the band manager into his personal quarters with a healthy mix of fear and childish curiosity, blue eyes widening as he took in the numerous awards, plaques, trophies, and weapons mounted on the rich burgundy walls. Potted plants took up residence in every corner and then some. Several brand-new lamps sat atop shelves and tables all over the room, and looking at them made Toki remember the day he and Pickles went on a drunken, lamp-smashing, rage-fueled tirade over the Snakes 'n' Barrels Sobertown USA No Drugs Allowed Rock 'n' Roll Sober Tour concert tour.

"Why don't you have a seat right here," Ofdensen directed the Norwegian to one of two plush leather chairs at the foot of his large and heinously expensive mahogany desk.

"For whats ams all dese trophies for?" Toki questioned.

Ofdensen followed his gaze to the dual needle-thin swords X-mounted on the wall. "Oh, yes. I fenced in college." He took a sip of brandy from the glass sitting on his desk before continuing. "Now Toki, what exactly is this, ah, personal issue troubling you?"

"I needs new pants!"

Blink. "Oh really."

"Yeeuh."

"Well then." Pause. "I've, ah, given all you boys your $100,000 allowance for this week. That should be, ah, a reasonably sufficient amount of money for you to –"

"NO I DON'TS WANTS TO GOES OUT AND BUYS DEM!" Toki exploded, irrationality making him desperate and stupid. "I WANTS UH, _HOMEMADE_ PANTS! YEAH!"

Ofdensen raised an eyebrow. "Homemade…pants?"

"Yeah! And yous better doos what I says or I has you _fired_, robots butler! Yeah!"

Robots Butler eyed Toki over the rim of his glasses. "You don't really want homemade pants, do you?"

A hopeless wail. "Oh, Ofsendens, I is havings to doos dis for Skwisgaar! Is all dat asshole's fault!" Tears, maybe? Maybe? Nope. Not yet. Let's continue reading and find out, shall we?

Ofdensen downed the rest of his brandy. "Ah, I see. So _Skwisgaar_ needs new pants, then?"

Toki sniffed. "Yeeuh."

"But he is for some reason too embarrassed to go out and buy them himself?"

"Uh-huh."

"Ah." Pause. "May I ask why?"

"Hows shoulds I know?" Toki demanded, voice raw. "Whats, just cause me and Skwisgaar's from same differents country dat doos mean we ams knowing everything abouts each of us? Yous racist asshole!"

Ofdensen allowed a moment of silence to pass while he delibrated on whether or not to delve any further into this situation. He figured he might as well. "All right, Toki. I am not going to ask any further questions regarding Skwisgaar's personal business as it is clearly upsetting you-"

"DAMN RIGHTS!"

"-but if it would be of any assistance to either of you, I may have a spare pair of pants lying around that he could wear for the time being."

Ofdensen got up and left the room. Toki bit his lip and stole an expensive cigar from the wooden box on the desk before the manager returned.

"Here." He presented the Norwegian with a carefully folded pair of lounge slacks. "I purchased these during our last trip to Monaco. They ought to be in his tastes." A pause. "The hem will need let out about fourteen inches. I'll send for the 'haus seamstress."

"Thanks you, robots butler." Toki sighed gratefully, accepting the pants with weary arms.

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

Skwisgaar was lying naked in bed watching a rerun of _COPS Smackdowns: Caught On Tape in West Virginia_ on _Spike!_ when Toki kicked his door open (again) and proudly brandished a folded pair of silken lounge slacks over his head, beaming like they were something of upheld significance. Skiwsgaar raised a blond eyebrow, only slightly annoyed. "Huuhh. Whats you gots dere, dildo?"

"Whats ams it looks like, stupids asshole?" Toki chirped, cheerfully tossing the pants at his naked bandmate. "Pants!"

"Pants?"

"Yeeuh. I gots dem from robots butler."

"WHAT." Skwisgaar sat up _all the way_ now. This was serious business. "You wents to OFSENDENSEN? HOW _COULDS_ YOUS?"

Toki rolled his eyes. "Reelax, is not like he is knowings anyt'ings."

"Pffft, is like yous to say shits likes dat." Skwisgaar curled his lip. "Or has you FORGOTTENS dat robots butler is knowingk EVERYT'ING DAT GOES ON AROUNDS HERE?"

"Oh stops being hoars-moan-all bitch and puts on de pants already!"

"Fucks yous!"

"Fucks yous!"

"Stops copies me!"

"Stops copies me!"

"Stops copies me!"

"JUSTS PUTS DE FUCKING PANTS ON!"

"FINES, I WILLS!"

Skwisgaar yanked the pants on while Toki went over to the mini-fridge and helped himself to a beer. He sat down on the bed and turned up the volume on the T.V. "Sees? Dey aint's dat bad."

And they weren't. Skwisgaar had to admit, despite the pants being entirely too short in the leg they were loose enough to fit comfortably slung low around his bony hips. He shook his hair out of his eyes and looked down at himself. Sharp-angled collarbone, hard thin chest, pierced nipples, swollen belly. Augh. "Hnnuh. Toki?"

Toki looked over, lips wrapped around the beer bottle. "Hmuh Kwihaar?"

Skwsigaar licked his lips. Put a hand over his stomach. Reconsidered. "Dese pants is too short."

Toki swallowed and waved a hand dismissively. "Ja, Ofsendens say he takes care of it later."

"Oh." He turned away. "Laters ain't exactly helpings me NOW, Tokis."

"Well goes down dere and tells him den!" Toki challenged. "Or ams yous too scaredy chickens?"

"FUCKS YOUS, AT LEAST I AMN'TS A CRIES-BABIES LITTLE _DILSDO_!" Skwisgaar snapped, pivoting on his heel to snatch the beer from Toki's unsuspecting hand. "AND QUITS DRINKINGS MY BOOZE!"

"Whats de hells, man?" Toki sputtered, eyes flickering back and forth between his now-empty hand and the beer now in Skwisgaar's hand. "Gives dat back, jerk-offs!"

The Swede blinked, looked at the beer. "Ah…oh. Ja, sorries." Numbly, he handed Toki the bottle and padded over to his closet. He sighed heavily and abruptly collapsed onto the bed, dragging his hands down his face with a morose groan. "Looks at me, Tokis. I ams fallingk aparts."

True to form, Toki eye-searched every exposed inch of the Swede's body, checking for cracks or fissures. "Nah, you looks fine to me. Why yous such weirds jackoff all de suddens?"

Skwisgaar mumbled a curse in Swedish, staring up at the stone ceiling. "De gods, Toki. Dey has _betrayed _ me." A breathy sigh escaped his lips, strangely high-pitched in its forlornness. "If dis ams what I must be goings through to earn noble Vikings death," he closed his eyes, pausing for dramatic effect, "den I woulds rather takes my own lives rights now."

"Wowie. Dats sounds pretty sear-ee-ous."

"Is ams."

Toki finished the beer. "Aww, yous just a mister crankys because you ams gettinks fats."

"Nguuh. Fucks you."

"Is not dat bads."

Skwisgaar glowered, not saying anything after that. Toki kept his gaze fixed on the T.V., sitting through two insurance ads and a commercial for Activia yogurt before looking over at the Swede. No words were exchanged. Toki lowered himself to lie beside Skwisgaar, and reached down to grab the lead guitarist's long callused hand in his own. Still they said nothing.

_COPS Smackdowns _blared on in the background, and they watched in companionable silence.

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

Eric von Weichlinghammer stood in the Mordhaus dressing room, his fish lips pursed in a beatific smile as his manservants Jön and Peter hauled in steamtrunk after steamtrunk of chaps, ropes, skins, furs, pelts, tops, pants, belts, spikes, studs, chains and whips. Nathan, Pickles, and Murderface watched with growing trepidation, recalling their last not-so-fruitful endeavor with the deranged German fashion designer. The screams, the blood, the piles of fresh flesh heaped on the stone floor. Brutal.

"Dees is ze new fall lineup," von Weichlinghammer explained. "To be launched in Munich on mein private runway. To even be _looking_ upon zem now eez among ze highest of privileges."

"Yeeeeeuh," Pickles replied, cringeing a little at the thought of wearing the clothes in those streamtrunks. Not so much because they were lovingly handcrafted from human remains, but they _were_ God-_awful_ tight.

Nathan and Murderface exchanged a look. Nathan won. Murderface grumbled and cleared his throat. "Uh, look, mishter _fanshy-pantsh_, we didn't bail you offa _death row_ to play life-shize fuckin Barbie dolls."

"But we do need your help," Pickles interjected after seeing the expression on 'hammer's face.

Von Weichlinghammer raised a thin silver eyebrow. Jön and Peter set the last trunk down and straightened up and flanked him like they were supposed to. "Oh? Do go on."

"Well, we saw that news report on how you kept all those supermodels in a barn and starved 'em to death so we thought maybe you could kinda do that to us, without the death part," Nathan clarified.

"Ya see, we've all gahtten a _bit_ outta shape lately, and we figured you'd be the guy t'help us!" Pickles added.

"Sho don't dishappoint ush, dickhead!" Murderface yelled, spit flying everywhere.

Von Weichlinghammer pressed his mouth into a thin line, debating. "You all very fat gentlemens come to me and expect me to help you lose veight. Vhy should zees be a problem of mine, when I am already under enough stress as of late?"

"But Master," Jön put in. "You haven't actually _found_ anyone skinny enough to model ze clothing, has you not?"

Von Weichlinghammer pondered this. "I suppose you are right." He eyed the three members of Dethklok standing before him, and dark, ominous shadows manifested in the sharp planes of his ugly face. "You three, no more eating. As of now you are on my trademark Weichlinghammer Special Leather Diet." He paused, and his voice was grave when he spoke again. "_You will fit into my_ _skinny pants_."

"This is wonderful German news." Peter murmured.

"Great, so you'll help us?" Nathan ventured.

Von Weichlinghammer chuckled darkly and said no more, turning and leaving the room in a flourish of sapphire crushed velvet coat, Jon and Peter trailing behind him.

Pickles took a drag off the joint that he'd procured literally out of nowhere. "Well dat was nice of 'em."

"Yeah, but now I'm shtartin' t'get kinda hungry," Murderface proclaimed. "Shtupid asshole dickmangler, makin' us shtarve t'death! _We're gonna shtarve t'death!_ Why did we agree to _do thish_…"

Nathan's eyes rolled back in his head, and he placed his hands over his face. "_Mmmmmrraaugh_ this is gonna suck donkey dick, guys."

Pickles giggled at the mental image and slurred something about shenanigans in Tijuana, but then he suddenly sobered up as a big realization occurred to him. "Hey doods. WHERE TH' HELL HAVE TOKI AN' SKWISGAAR BEEN FOR THE PAST THREE DAYS?"

**( X ) - ( x ) – ( X )**

**(Man, I just wanna take a virtual Sharpie and scrawl "GAAAAAYYY" across the whole computer screen whenever I re-read this story)**

**So. Thoughts? Questions? Concerns? Well feel free to ask, but I probably won't be able to answer your queries on the grounds that I am literally making this up as I go. I really don't have any idea how this plot is going to unfurl, so be on your toes, people! **


End file.
